The Just World Fallacy
by MissiAmphetamine
Summary: Sequel to "The Risk-Reward Ratio." The weight of the war begins to break both Hermione and Draco as they struggle to survive capture, betrayal, isolation, the consequences of their actions, and other perils and scars of war, with their lives and relationship intact. Nothing is ever easy, or even fair, but there's nothing they can do but keep fighting. Facebook: /theriskrewardratio
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: The 'verse and the characters are JK Rowling's – all hail the supreme creator! I'm just gleefully playing in her sandbox, and own nothing except for my original plot concepts and characters, so please don't sue me; you'll get no joy from that anyway :D

**Author's Note: **And thus begins the sequel to _The Risk-Reward Ratio_. You'll want to read that first if you want to make any sense of this, whatsoever. The prologue should be up within the week – I'm working on it right now, and if you've read _The Risk-Reward Ratio_, you know I can work fast :)

**Trigger Warnings: **Graphic violence, explicit sexual content, graphic torture – hell, graphic _everything_ – rude language, and ten times your recommended daily intake of angst.

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**The Just World Fallacy**

They say that people get what they deserve. That bad things happen to bad people. That the guilty will always get their just deserts. They speak of karma and fate, and all those pretty, meaningless words.

They say that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. That people can adapt to anything, given time. They say that the universe doesn't give you more than you can handle, as if it somehow _knows_.

They say, that everything turns out okay in the end, and if it isn't okay, it's not the end.

Hermione hopes that last one is true, because she knows for a fact that the others are not; knows it right down in her bones – the heavy, leaden truth of experience. But that last one, well…she is waiting to find out.

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	2. Omake: I'll Make It Better

**Author's Note: **Thank you to everyone who has reviewed _The Risk-Reward _Ratio, and this story. I appreciate it so much! I hope you enjoy this (very short but) speedy update :D

_We begin, with an ending…_

**Omake: I'll Make It Better**

_If you were falling, then I would catch you_

_You need a light, I'd find a match_

'_Cause I love the way you say good morning_

_And you take me the way I am_

…

'_Cause I love you more than I could ever promise_

_And you take me the way I am_

_[The Way I Am, Ingrid Michaelson]_

They spend two weeks in a tiny, dark, dank cell being given food and water through a slot at the bottom of the iron door once a day. No one comes to speak to them, although sometimes they can hear Death Eaters talking in muffled, worried voices in the hallway, through the tiny barred window at the top of the door. They wait on tenterhooks, expecting any minute for Death Eaters to come bursting in and drag one of them away for _interrogation_. Hermione is constantly scared, and Draco has to force her to eat, because between the pain from her wounds and the fear, she has no appetite. The third week, she is glad he convinced her to eat, because the food and water just…stops coming.

At first they are convinced it is just a tactic, to try to get them to break, and they refuse to give the Death Eaters the satisfaction. They collect the water of the dank walls, taking to licking the walls like dogs to get the moisture, but in the end, they break. Finally, they scream in weak, cracked voices for someone to come, to please bring them water, _food_, anything, _please_; but the hallway outside their cell stands silent and empty, and no one comes. They are listless and close to death, curled up together in a huddle of pain when they hear a door slam, which rouses them from their stupor. Footsteps, and shouts approach, and they listen silently, too dehydrated to cry out, and too frightened this approach means their torture or death, anyway, Draco's arms wrap around Hermione as if he can protect her, and her face buries against his chest.

And then Harry's voice rings out through their cell door and everything changes. It's over; he tells them in a high, excited voice once they've been disapparated to St Mungo's for treatment. It's over – Voldemort is dead, and the war is _over_. Hermione spends three days crying, and she doesn't know why, and Draco is strangely grief-stricken and silent for just as long when he finds out his father died in the final battle. They don't even get a chance to enjoy peacetime before Draco is charged as a Death Eater, and goes on trial for war crimes. He is carted off to Azkaban while he awaits trial, and Hermione spends weeks crying herself to sleep in the cellar in his old bed, while Harry and Ginny – who have stayed on in the Godric's Hollow house – watch over her with quiet concern.

And then they came up before the Wizengamot, Hermione standing by Draco's side, the senior Order members at their backs, and the judgement is made. What is left of the Malfoy family fortune is taken from Draco and his mother – to be put to use to restore the damages of war. He is banned from using magic for the next six months, except for whilst under Ministry supervision, and a trace is placed upon him, and he is sentenced to five years community service. Hermione is overjoyed, and he is quietly stunned by the outcome. She tells him there is no way he can get out of marrying her now, and for once he has nothing snarky to say to that.

They are married three months after the end of the war. Hermione has Harry and Ginny as her witnesses. She would have had Harry and Ron, but Draco asks Ron first, and has him and Pansy as his witnesses, and no one is more stunned by _that_ than Hermione. It is hard, to try to find some new form of normal, when everything is new and different. They accept Harry and Ginny's offer to take over the Godric's Hollow cellar while they finish their NEWTS, apparating to Hogsmeade each day and walking up to Hogwarts together, with the other students their age who had wanted to complete their studies. It is awkward, and Draco is not welcomed, but they find it surprisingly easy to ignore the childish taunts and pranks. It is nothing compared to what they went through in the war.

When they graduate, Professor McGonagall tells Draco that Professor Slughorn is retiring – he is confused as to why she would inform him of this, until she tells him that she is offering _him_ the job. Hermione _makes_ him accept. Minerva, as she says they must call her now, also offers Hermione the job of Muggle Studies teacher – she says she knows no one better suited to the job, and with a smirk Draco says he is inclined to agree, and Hermione doesn't know whether that is a compliment or not. So they live at the school, and spend their days teaching, and Draco spends his evenings working off his community service by repairing the damage done to the school during the final battle, and his nights marking papers. They spend very little time together as a result of his busyness, which is why it is such a surprise when Hermione finds out she is pregnant.

She is immediately ecstatic and reading every book on the topics of pregnancy, childbirth, and childrearing that she can get her hands on, and Draco is, by turns, terrified, reluctant, excited and smug. As her belly blooms bigger and bigger, the smugness takes over nearly completely, as if he enjoys everyone seeing physical evidence that he screws the living daylights out of her. The primitiveness of that reaction amuses her, and the way he rests his cheek against her belly at night and whispers to their child makes her heart melt. She takes maternity leave at eight months, and enjoys irritating the hell out of Draco by lounging around and complaining of boredom, until he sets her to work marking the potions papers for him.

They have a daughter, who arrives promptly on her due date, and everyone says she looks like Hermione, although she has her father's eyes. They name her Cassiopeia June Granger–Malfoy, because Draco insists on carrying on his family tradition of star-related names, because his mother would like it, and Hermione insists she needs an ordinary name too, and as she was born in June, June it is. They all end up calling her Pea, thanks to Ron's coining of the nickname when she was six days old, so in the end it doesn't matter what they named her anyway. Not long after Pea is born, they move out of Hogwarts, buying a small slightly rundown cottage on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, and Draco discovers exactly how much he hates house maintenance; with a passion. He gets in Harry and Ron to help him fix it up, and Hermione thinks they end up spending more time sitting on the roof drinking beer and talking shit than actually fixing things.

When Pea is two, Hermione gets a job at the Ministry, under Arthur Weasley, and works there happily for three years until she gets pregnant again, at the same time as Ginny, and Cho. They had all attended the same memorial service on the anniversary of the war and gotten proper drunk at an informal party at the Longbottoms' house afterwards, before going home to…_well_. So it isn't exactly a surprise so many people got pregnant. This time around, Draco goes straight into smug mode, and stays that way Hermione's entire pregnancy. Scorpius John Granger–Malfoy is born two days before Albus Severus Potter, and nine days before Hugo Jun Weasley, and Hermione calls for an end to the 'baby' part of their baby-making activities, and Draco agrees with a sigh of relief; two children are enough for both of them.

The years go by, and eventually Draco takes over as Head of Slytherin house, and Hermione shifts around in the Ministry until she ends up in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, in charge of the entire Muggle Liaison Office. Pea decides she wants to be called Cassie the year that she goes off to Hogwarts with James Sirius Potter, and Rose Xiang Weasley, and Scorpius is extremely jealous of his older sister. But he joins her there eventually, although Cassie is sorted into Slytherin – much to her mother's surprise and her father's delight – and Scorpius into Ravenclaw. Draco and Hermione have more time to just the two of them once the children are both at Hogwarts, and they enjoy it. They go on vacations with the Potters and Weasleys in the school holidays, and they spend long evening arguing with each other, and long nights in bed _making up_.

In Cassie's fifth year, Professor Longbottom catches her and James _going at it _in an empty classroom, and when they are called into the school and informed Hermione and Harry are apoplectic, Ginny goes as red as her hair, and Draco doesn't stop laughing hysterically until Hermione throws Neville's inkwell at him. It's even more awkward when the year after they've graduated from Hogwarts, Scorpius and Hugo admit to their parents that they are in love. Draco is stunned into uncharacteristic speechlessness, and Hermione is supportive, and later on in the privacy of their bedroom it is _Hermione_ who can't stop laughing this time, at Draco's shock, until Draco swallows her laughter with his mouth and then shags her 'til she screams instead.

Eventually Draco's hair starts to thin a bit, although he denies it vigorously, and Hermione gets thicker around the waist, although Draco wisely denies _that _vigorously too. They have their fair share of ups and downs, and life is always changing, and nothing is ever constant, not even their happiness, but they always get through the hard times, and relish the good, and they are together, and that's what counts, in the end.

One afternoon, when the Potters and Weasleys are visiting, along with James and Cassie – who is pregnant with their first child – Hermione finds herself staring into the bubbles frothed up in the kitchen sink as she does the dishes. She has the strangest feeling that something is wrong, and she can't seem to shake it off – she thinks perhaps she drank too much wine at lunch, because everything seems a little off-kilter. When Harry wanders into the kitchen to get fresh beers for him, Draco, and Ron, he notices her standing there like a statue, and she tells him vaguely that she can't get rid of the feeling that _something is wrong._

_All is well_, Harry tells her, with a lopsided smile and a quick, squeezing hug about her shoulders, and Hermione stares out the kitchen window at Draco, sitting in the garden with Ron and all the others, smirking at something Ron had said, and she believes Harry. All is well.

**Author's Note:** I hope you enjoyed that little _omake_/alternate ending type thingy :) I loved writing it – it was so much fun to try to compress their lives into a very short space, and still have it not be a 'summary' but a story. I hope I succeeded at making it in-character, enjoyable and _awww-happy-feels_.

The above _is_ however canon to my story – not a real outtake – and will slot in with the next chapter of the story in a way that makes sense. It is, to me, also a very viable way as to how things life could have played out for Draco and Hermione, if their story ended here – but it doesn't end here…unless of course you want it to. If you blanch easily, or don't like storms of angst before you get to the sunny weather of the happy ending, then I recommend you stop reading here, hehe :p

If, however, you want to find out what _really_ happens, not just what _could_ have happened, then keep on reading! Please, do! (Once I get the next chapter up, of course, lol.)

**Please review!**

**Final Note: **_Sapphire_ – thanks for commenting on _The Risk-Reward Ratio_! Because I can't reply to you via PM regarding your question about _The Risk-Reward Ratio's_ ending I'll do so here, especially as others might also be curious as to why I ended it where I did, and also because I like to ramble :)

Yes, it is more of a 'to be continued' than a proper story ending + entirely new story beginning. Although if you were into tragic endings, you could take the end of The Risk-Reward Ratio to be the completion of their story altogether, I suppose – they've been captured, and in the end it was all for nothing, but they're together, and Hermione has no regrets, and Draco does, and now, it's all over…etc. Personally, I don't find those sorts of endings satisfying, but some people do, I'm sure!

Really, I suppose the reasons I ended The Risk-Reward Ratio where I did and began this story were because it was getting so immensely _long_, and because from here on out, although the plot is pretty much continuing, the story will have a quite different feel IMO because it's focusing on very different background themes.

It also kind of just seemed like a good dividing point in the overall story – Draco finally fitting in with the Order, a big, climactic mission, Draco and Hermione getting captured, and also, them having finally truly solidified their relationship, so their dynamic is no longer about them _getting_ together and trying to establish a relationship, but about _being_ together and holding onto the relationship, despite everything that will happen in this story.

I hope that explains everything? Thanks again for reviewing!


	3. Prologue: Just Beginning

**Author's Note: **Thank you for the reviews, favourites and follows! I'm so excited about this story, and am glued to the computer – which is why I haven't replied to most of your reviews yet – I'm sorry about that! So I'll say it here, again – thank you so much! Your reviews make my day!

Just a note: I listened to the incredible _Cloud Atlas Sextet_ piece a lot while writing this chapter, as well as _O Children_…and I get the feeling I'll be listening to _Cloud Atlas_ a _lot_ while writing this story – the tone/mood of the music (which is just _gorgeous_) really fits what I feel the overall tone/mood of the story is going to be :)

Now onward to the first proper chapter of _The Just World Fallacy_; I hope you'll all enjoy it.

_Abandon hope, all ye who enter here._

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_**Prologue: Just Beginning**_

_My dear, my darling one_

_The cleaners are coming, one by one_

_You don't even want to let them start_

_They are knocking now upon your door_

_They measure the room, they know the score_

_They're mopping up the butcher's floor_

_Of your broken little hearts_

_[O Children, Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds]_

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Hermione gasped at the wrenching pain roaring through her body as she clutched at consciousness, and opened her swollen eyes to slits, seeing only deep shadows, and the bleak grey of cold, damp stone above her. It had been a _dream_ – it had just been a _dream_ she realised, despair closing in on her like death and _it hurt_ because it had all seemed so _real_. But it was gone. It had all been a pretty lie. The solidity of the dream began to dissipate like smoke in the wind as the pain forced her further into cold, cruel consciousness, and she mentally snatched and clawed at the fantasy, her heart sinking as the happiness drifted away from her. Not real, out of her reach, and even as Hermione tried to grasp it and at least _remember_ it, the details began to fuzz and blur in her mind. She was losing it, losing to that strange jumble of half-remembered dreams that you couldn't articulate once you woke.

Her mind swam for a dizzying moment, and then with a flash of hard horror Hermione remembered the last _real_ thing that had happened – Draco bleeding and unconscious, being dragged roughly to his feet by the Death Eaters, who had finally grown tired of beating him and_ enervating _him whenever he passed out to beat him some more. His face had been unrecognisable with swelling and bruises and blood, and he had hung in their hands like he was _dead_. She had lost her voice from screaming at them to stop a long time ago, and she had whispered his name desperately; _Draco_. As though saying it aloud was a talisman against him dying, which was so _stupid_ and pathetic, but it was all she had, and then a voice behind her had snapped, "_Stupefy_," and she had known nothing else, until now.

She lay on the freezing, uneven, hard stone, on her back. There was stone ceiling high above her, slick moss growing in the damp cracks between the stones. She automatically took an inventory of herself as she waited for her head to clear – her mind still fogged from the _Cruciatus _and the _stupefy_,and not quite operating properly yet. A jut of stone from the floor dug into her hip, and another into her back, her ankle was a mass of pain, her shoulder ached fiercely from where she'd hit it on the floor in the explosion at Gringotts, the skin on her face felt swollen taut and stretched and painfully _hot _from the beating she'd taken, and her every nerve felt fiery with the lingering echoes of the _Cruciatus_. Her throat was raw from screaming, and her hands stung and hurt, especially around her nail beds – and she vaguely remembered clawing at the floor until her nails tore and bled, in a pitiful attempt to get away.

_Get away._ The reality of the situation hit Hermione hard, and she choked out a wretched, rattling sob as panic seized her, and her shoulders shook and her chest heaved and juddered with it, and pain flared through her body. She had been _captured_ – _they_ had been captured, and her mind was suddenly filled, to the exclusion of all else, with thoughts of Draco. She rolled her head to the right, the movement painful, and saw nothing but floor and wall. Rolled her head to the left, wincing – and there she saw him. Crumpled in a bloodied heap in the corner of the cell, still and limp, and her heart beat wildly in her chest and she started to hyperventilate with terror.

They couldn't have killed him – they _wouldn't_ have; they had said that Voldemort would be pleased to make an example out of Draco, so they _couldn't_ have killed him. Hermione forced herself to sit up, gritting her teeth at the hurt of it, her badly bruised shoulder throbbing and aching as she shoved herself up weakly with her hands. She made herself crawl to him, every bit of her aching and hurting, wanting to cry out but holding it back, because she needed to be strong, for both of them. She had to keep it together, until they were rescued, or…well, she just needed to keep it together. That was all there was to it. She reached Draco's side and clamped a hand over her mouth, whimpering and shaking as she stared down at him.

She couldn't tell if he was breathing, the way he was lying, crumpled on his side, and she was too weak to roll him over and didn't want to hurt him by moving him anyway… So with her heart in her throat, Hermione's cold fingers slid beneath Draco's swollen jaw and found where his pulse should be. It thrummed weakly beneath her blood-smeared fingers, and Hermione let out a ragged breath, relief swamping her. He was alive. He had been brutally beaten and tortured to the point that Hermione didn't know _how_ he was still alive, but he _was_.

"Draco," she whispered, throat burning as she spoke, voice hoarse and rasping. "Draco." Her shaking fingers brushed his blood matted hair back from his face with light, tender motions, and he stirred and let out a pained whimper at her touch. Hermione didn't try harder than those few whispers to rouse him – perhaps it was better to let him stay insensible. If she woke him, all she would be doing was making him aware of the pain, and the utter, desperate hopelessness of their situation. She told herself harshly not to fall apart, not to sink into despair – pulled herself together with an effort. She had to figure out the situation, to take stock of the pros and cons, and try to make a plan, even if the plan was only to hold on and not let herself be broken for as long as possible.

Sitting back, careful of her ankle – leg stretched out awkwardly in front of her – Hermione checked what, if anything, the Death Eaters had left to her. Everything that had been hooked onto her belt or stuffed in the pouches attached to it was gone, bar some bandages and the dittany, and the single dose of pain potion they always carried into battle, and Hermione was pathetically grateful they'd left those, and then hated herself for feeling that gratitude. She had an entire small vial of dittany left, and if Draco still had his, he should have about three-quarters left after what he'd sprinkled on her hands earlier. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. She sprinkled a tiny bit of dittany on her bloodied fingertips and hissed at the pain as she scrubbed her hands together, trying to get as much coverage as possible from the smallest possible amount. It helped, and at least now she could use her hands without cringing.

She smeared some more dittany over her puffy, bloodied lips like lip-gloss, and dabbed a little sparingly over the cuts on her face – working on touch, it seemed like her eyebrow was split, there was a another split over her right cheekbone, and her left earlobe had been torn somehow. They couldn't afford to get infections, so open wounds were the priority – she didn't put any on her bruises, although she wished she could. There was nothing she could do for her broken ankle either, except for strap it up firmly with one of the three bandage rolls she had, so she did that, tears leaking from her eyes at the pain of it. It was swollen to well over twice its usual size and black with bruising, and every touch started a bolt of agony up her leg, but Hermione just clenched her jaw and made herself do it.

It was hard not to think ahead and let panic and despair take over, but Hermione knew that she had to focus on what she could do _now_, in the moment, and let the future take care of itself. Hermione hated that feeling, that complete dearth of any control over what happened to her, but she just had to suck it up and deal with it, she told herself harshly. It wouldn't help either of them if she crumbled and fell apart. They had dittany and bandages, and they were at least in a cell together – she couldn't imagine how horrible it would have been to wake up alone, and not know if Draco was alive or dead. Just the _thought_ made her want to shiver apart into a useless heap of panicked tears.

She scanned the tiny, dark cell, taking account of their surroundings. The room was stone, chill and dank, and the door set in the middle of one wall was made of iron, with a small barred window at the top – the only source of light for the cell. There was a slot at the bottom of the door, which Hermione guessed was to shove food and water through, and Hermione could see at a glance that there was no way they were getting through that door unless someone on the other side opened it for them. There was a fist-sized hole in one wall that looked like it was there for air circulation, because a cold draught wisped out of it and made Hermione shiver. In one corner, there was a heap of blankets that were really little more than rags and for a scared moment Hermione had thought the pile was actually the shrouded body of the cell's last occupant.

She slid around awkwardly on her bum in a circle, careful of her strapped up ankle, and looked at the wall behind her. All that was there was a rusty bucket, and she stared at it blankly for a moment, before she remembered the bucket in the cellar when Draco had first arrived at Godric's, and her stomach lurched and she felt sick. A bucket, out in the open – that was their toilet now, and Hermione went hot with anger and horrible humiliation. For some strange reason, it wasn't the pain, or the hopelessness of their situation, or Draco's beaten state, which made Hermione fall apart. In the end it was the realisation that _that_ _bucket _was where she would have to relieve herself from now on that finally drove her into helpless, despairing sobs.

**# # # # # #**

Everything hurt. Everything hurt, and someone was crying, and Draco groaned and licked his lips with a dry, furry tongue and winced at the pain the tiny movement caused. He tried to open his eyes, but they were both swollen shut to bare slits, and all he could make out was a welling darkness, alleviated by flickering washes of grey. He remembered them beating him and reviving him, over and over until he was biting his tongue bloody to keep himself from begging them for mercy. He refused to give them the satisfaction. He remembered the all-consuming agony of the _Cruciatus_ Curse, and the convulsions that came with it. But then there was just _nothing_ until he had stirred to consciousness and felt the blaze of pain, and the sound of ragged sobbing had filled his ears.

He was lying on his side, and he tried to move but all he could summon was a twitch of his fingers, and even that small achievement fucking _hurt_. So he tried to speak, instead, because even though his ears were still ringing and he was half deaf from the blows to his head, Draco recognised who was crying those miserable, broken sobs. Hermione. _Fuck_, Hermione was here, and they had both been captured, and now they were totally and absolutely _fucked_. Draco licked his lips again and swallowed painfully, slurred, "H'ione?"

The sound of crying cut off sharply, and scrabbling, rustling noises came closer to him, and then her face filled his vision, blurred, hanging over him – she was pale where she wasn't bruised, features swollen, one eye half-closed, and her cheeks streaked with tears. "Draco!" she rasped and she sounded like she'd been choked half to death, and he remembered her screaming for the Death Eaters to stop hurting him until her voice had failed her. Her hand slid over his temple, shaking and cold as ice, and he tilted his head slightly, trying to push into the comfort of her touch.

"Please tell me that Potter and the others have rescued us, and this is just a really shitty hospital," he croaked – he'd screamed himself hoarse too, in the end. But he hadn't begged. He hadn't begged. Hermione's lips trembled and she glared at him, all watery and choked. "Don't _joke_, Draco. It's not _funny_. It's not –" And then she started crying again. He lifted his hand to her face, suppressing a moan of pain, and cupped her cheek very, very gently. "It is, a little bit," he tried, a smile twisting his mouth for a brief, painful moment, and she scowled at him with helpless not-really-anger and sobs shook her like a leaf, and then she wrapped her arms around him very carefully and clung to him. He could tell she wanted to squeeze the life out of him, and was glad she refrained, because he was afraid he might start crying with the pain if she gripped too hard, and that was embarrassment he really didn't bloody need, right now.

He rested his hand on the back of her head, tentatively, and curled his fingers into the soft tangle of her hair, letting out a shaky breath that ruffled her hair, and shut his eyes. They were fucked. They were completely fucked, and Draco knew that it had to be his fault, somehow – somewhere back along the line, he had made a decision that had led her to be in this place with him. It had to be his fault. He wished she wasn't here. He wished that it was just him, alone, but it wasn't, and he had to live with that until they killed him, because there was nothing he could damn well do about it.

All he could do was hope that Potter and Weasley cared about Hermione as much as Draco thought they did, and would do whatever it took to get her back. At the end of the day, Draco didn't care if he, Potter, and Weasley all died, if it meant that Hermione was rescued, alive and whole. He knew without asking that Hermione would rather die herself, than have anyone die _for_ her, though. _Stupid_, noble Gryffindor.

A moment later Hermione drew back from him, wiping her tears gingerly away as he watched her blurrily. "They left us our dittany," she said by way of explanation as she fumbled with something at her belt. "Shut your eyes," she told him, ghosting her hand over them and Draco obeyed, hearing the sucking pop of a cork before something damp sprinkled his face lightly, like a mist of rain. And then her fingers were firm on his tender, throbbing flesh, spreading the sparse quantity of dittany over the injuries that covered his face, and he ground his teeth together and jerked out a groan at the touch, and she apologised abjectly, over and over as she hesitantly continued.

"It's all right," he gasped, fingers cramping into claws, interrupting her self-flagellation. "I'm fine. It just – ah _fuck_ – fucking hurts, that's – all. I – I know you…have to… Just hurry up. _Please._"

"_God_. Oh Merlin, I'm so _sorry_, Draco," Hermione apologised miserably one last time, and then they fell into a silence only broken by his half-stifled winces, and her uneven breaths.

"What else hurts?" she asked worriedly when she was done, and the dittany began to slowly work its welcome magic on his battered face. Draco laughed, which devolved into racking coughs that made him clench his fist and tense all over as the pain grasped at him with greedy fingers, pulling him down into the suffocating mire of it.

"_Everything_," he grated when he finally regained the ability to speak, a tilt of bitter amusement to his tone. "Fucking _everything_ hurts, Hermione."

She rubbed shaking hands over her face and dragged in a breath, shaking her head. "Please, Draco. Don't… I can't – I just can't, right now. I – just tell me what I can fix, _please_."

"I'm rather certain my shoulder's dislocated. Do you know some fancy Muggle way to –"

"Yes," she said breathlessly, and Draco could see Hermione took comfort in the fact that he had given her something she could _do_. "I think so."

It hurt like hell to move, and they were both clumsy and weak, and the air resounded with grunts of effort and bitten back whimpers of pain as Hermione helped Draco sit up. She took off her belt and tripled it over for him to bite down on, and then bent his elbow so his arm was arranged at what she said in a shaking voice was a ninety degree angle, and he clenched his jaw hard, teeth indenting into the leather, hissing at the pain.

"Is it…?" she asked him, worried eyes darting to his face, and he nodded. "Keep going," he growled, barely understandable around the belt, and she nodded, white as snow and shaking, although her grip on his arm was firm. She helped him rotate his arm out, and then up, and then slowly raise it above his head, and tears of pain welled up in his eyes despite himself. And then, with an odd sound and an even stranger sensation, the joint slipped back into place.

"_Fuck_,' he breathed gratefully around the belt as the pain began to dissipate, and they both sagged with relief. Draco pushed the belt clumsily out of his mouth with his tongue, and slumped back against the wall, trying to ignore the pain that created in his back. "Thank you, Hermione," he mumbled, letting his eyes slide shut and just enjoying the lowered pain levels – far more bearable now. He heard scuffings and winces, and then something brushed against his upper arm, and she let out a sigh. "Jesus. I _never_ want to have to do that again," she said tightly, sounding on the verge of tears, and Draco leaned his head back on the cold stones behind him, and tipped his mouth up in a faint smile. "Believe me; neither do I."

"What else can I do to help?" she asked from beside him a short moment later, still anxious and tearful sounding, and Draco catalogued his many hurts in his head. "There's a cut on the back of my head, and my…stump…got torn up a bit, there's still glass in my back, I think more than a few of my ribs are broken or cracked, and I'm bloody well bruised all over and…well, that's about all you can fix with just dittany. Although you should probably leave the bruises, and save the dittany." There was no point in telling her about the rest of his hurts, which she couldn't help with – it'd only upset her worse than she already was, and right now she needed to be strong. They both did.

"I _was_ going to leave the bruises," she said with a faint, weak smile, and then, "Sit forward then," she told him, and he did as she asked, tipping his head forward and feeling her part his matted hair – like straw from the blood dried in it. And then she began smearing dittany-covered fingers over the gash there, and Draco grimaced and tried not to give into the instinctive urge to jerk his head away from the pain she was causing.

"Done," she said a moment later. "Give me your arm."

"I – I can do it…" Because he still felt _all_ bloody kinds of weird and uncomfortable with her touching his stump so openly and purposefully, and she had always been so tentative and hesitant with it, and Draco still hadn't decided if it put her off.

"Don't be silly. Let me," she insisted though, and he opened his now far less swollen eyes and watched her face as she took his arm and laid it over her lap. "Sorry if this hurts," she said pointlessly, because it _would_ hurt, and there was nothing they could do about that, and then began sprinkling on the smallest amount of dittany possible, and spreading it out over his blood encrusted stump. Her touch was exceedingly tender and gentle, and she had drawn her lower lip up into her mouth, caught between her teeth as she frowned down at his arm in concentration. Even like this she was beautiful, and even feeling as fucking horrible as he did, Draco still wanted to kiss her, and slide his hand over that smooth, silky skin hidden beneath her leathers, tracing out every part of her.

"I have bandages, so I can strap your ribs at least – and you should have some bandages and dittany on your belt still too – and a pain potion," Hermione said when she was done ministering to his stump, and Draco shifted so she could unhook the little leather cases that held what the Death Eaters had so fucking _generously_ left them with. The bastards. She helped him strip down to his skin from the waist up, accompanied by the constant stream of foul language he spat out, which funnily enough actually helped make the pain more bearable. She gasped when she saw the bruising the beating at the bank had left him with.

He had more bruised skin than clear patches, and was coloured in vibrant hues of dark red and purple tinted black, and Hermione just stared at it all for a moment, hand clasped over her mouth.

"I _hate_ them," she said viciously as she helped him lean forward so she could get to his back, to pull out the remaining shards of glass. "I _hate them so much_."

"Good," Draco said, flinching as her fingers plucked out a piece of glass. "Hate them. Be _angry_. They're – they're going to try to break us, Hermione, and it's easier to withstand what – what they're going to do if you're angry."

"I – what do you think they'll do?" she asked him in a small voice, still finding and picking free bits of glass, and Draco wondered whether her should tell her or not. He didn't want her to be dwelling on it, and making it all seem even worse in her head than it would be anyway. But there wasn't much point keeping it from her, especially as she knew most of what they would be likely to do anyway. Partly, he just didn't want to say it aloud, and he sure as fuck didn't want to think about it.

"Draco?"

He sighed. "They'll use the Cruciatus, of course. They'll probably beat us, pull fingernails and toenails, use cutting hexes and stinging hexes and every other non-fatal, painful type of spell they can think of, and then heal the injuries just so they can do it all over again. They'll starve us, and then do something merciful, to try to fuck with our heads. They'll try to use us against each other – they'll make us watch each other be tortured, and tell us the other's torture will continue until we break."

His throat tightened and nearly closed up as he omitted the other sort of torture they would be sure to use, unable to say the word. He knew it was coming if they didn't escape soon, and he _couldn't_ think of Hermione… An uncomfortable silence fell, before he cleared his throat and finished, "They're Death Eaters, Hermione – for the most part, they're sadistic monsters, and they _enjoy_ thinking of new ways to hurt people. It…won't be fun."

He looked up at her, grey eyes meeting firewhiskey brown, both sets surrounded by real bruising now rather than the faux-bruising of stress and sleeplessness. "You best hope the Order finds us quickly."

Hermione looked down and away at that, not answering, and Draco damned well _knew_ that she was thinking she'd rather they _didn't_ if it meant people died in an attempt to save the two of them.

"Do you – do you have any idea where we are?"

"No. I don't recognise it – I've never been here before, as far as I know. Not on _this_ side of the door, anyway," he added with a dry bitterness, and Hermione's fingers jerked away from his back for a moment at the reminder of whom and what he'd been. And then she resumed her careful, painful work on his back, and he rested his forearms over his drawn up knees, and laid his forehead down upon them, sighing.

"How long was I out for?" he asked, for something to fill the silence.

"I don't know. About an hour after I woke up, but I don't know how long I was unconscious and we can't see outside to see if it's light or dark, so… I'm not that hungry yet though, and that, along with the look of our wounds, well, I don't think it could be longer than half a day at most."

He grunted in acknowledgement, and then made an mmphing sound of protest as Hermione had to _wriggle_ one particularly deeply lodged bit of glass out of his back. "Sorry," she said and he just buried his forehead harder against his forearms and clenched his teeth. Fuck it hurt. And it was only going to get a lot worse before it got better, Draco thought, mind on the torture that he knew would be coming, all too soon.

**# # # # # #**

She watched the muscles in his back and shoulders ripple and slide under his skin with fascination as she plucked the glass free, dropping each freed shard with a _tink_ into the growing pile beside her leg. He tensed each time she pulled a piece free, and his shoulders bunched and his back flexed, and a little hiss she didn't think he was aware of slid from between his teeth. His back was bruised nearly all over, and speckled with dried blood and glass – a minefield of it, and fresh trickles of blood joined the old as she wiggled the deeper pieces free. In the strangest kind of way, it actually soothed her, doing this. Repetitive work, that took some but not too much concentration, where she got a rhythm going and settled into the flow; it was like knitting – almost meditative.

It helped Hermione to keep from dwelling on what Draco had said, about the torture. She knew what he had avoided saying, and a sick, horrified revulsion coiled in her belly at the thought. But she made her mind stay on the job in front of her; Draco's lean back, the pale skin replaced with dark bruises and blotches of blood. It hurt just to look at. She removed the last piece that she could get out without a pair of tweezers to grip the smallest bits of glass, or a needle to dig about with, and started to sparingly anoint his back with dittany. And then after that, she strapped his ribs firmly, and made him drink half of one of their pain potions – just enough to take the edge off the pain for the next few hours.

She shook out the pile of rags – and they really were just _rags_, and laid them out beside Draco – they might be filthy and thin, but they provided a layer of insulation between the cold hard floor and themselves, and Hermione careful helped Draco get dressed again, and shift onto the rags. And then, after that, she realised with a lurch that she had run out of things to do. She'd run out of tasks to occupy her and distract herself from the reality of their situation, and she sat down beside Draco and stared down at her hands, smeared with blood and nails torn and ragged, resting uselessly in her lap. There was nothing left to do but wait. Stare at the door, and try to ignore the pain, and the fear, and the growing gnawing of hungriness in her stomach, and _wait_.

For what? For the Death Eaters to come through, and hurt her, and hurt Draco, until they were broken and screaming and lost in madness like Neville's poor, mad parents, who had died in the attack on St Mungo's?

Hermione swallowed and her fingers flexed. No, she wasn't waiting for that. She didn't want Harry to make any deals that would end up hurting the war effort in order to get them back, and she sure as hell didn't want him risking death to get them back either. But she had to hope for something, had to have something to cling onto, even if it was just a fantasy. So, she told herself that she would wait for Harry, Ron, and the rest of the Order to come and save them. That was what she would wait for. She squeezed her eyes shut and locked her hands tightly together in her lap. She would wait for Harry and Ron to come and get them. She was waiting for Harry and Ron to come through that door, not people with cruel faces and grasping hands. Harry. And Ron. Harry. Ron.

"Hermione. _Fuck_, Hermione, stop it. _Stop it_, _Hermione_." Draco's voice was rough and urgent, nearly angry as he shook her, and it snapped through the haze that had taken over Hermione's mind. She realised that she'd been muttering to herself, and all but rocking back and forth like a mad person, and her nails were digging deep into her hands. She rattled in a gasping breath and swallowed hard, trying to pull herself together. She opened her eyes as Draco's hand settled over her two, firmly teasing her hands apart, his eyes silver and storm clouds in the light, and worried and guilty on hers.

"Come on, Hermione," he grated out, fierce and harsh, eyes boring into hers. "You can't fucking fall apart on me now. All right? You _have_ to keep it together. You can't…can't go to pieces on me. You're fucking _stronger_ than that."

His hand cupped her chin, forcing her head toward his, eyes roaming over her face searchingly, looking for her acknowledgement. But all Hermione could think about was the fact that they were going to be tortured and hurt and humiliated and violated and _broken_, and there was _nothing_ she or Draco could do to stop it. They were utterly powerless, helpless – at the Death Eaters' mercy, and _they_ had no mercy. She pressed her lips together hard and a shudder seized through her body. Draco held her hand in his and she clutched on so hard their bones slid and ground beneath the skin, unable to stop _thinking_ about what they were going to do to her, and to him; unable to block the fear and the anticipation and the _reality_ of all the horrible, awful things out of her mind.

She had lost all control. They could do whatever they wanted with her and Draco, _and she couldn't stop them_. It was like the manor all over again, only so, so much worse, and she couldn't _take_ it. Couldn't be strong. Couldn't go through it again. Not _again_.

Hermione knew vaguely, as though from a vast distance, that she was starting to hyperventilate, and black spots danced in front of her unfocused eyes, and Draco was half-snarling at her to _pull yourself together_ and _snap the __**fuck**__ out of it_ and _this isn't bloody helping, Hermione_, a note of frightened desperation in his voice. And then she broke against him, crashing against him like a wave, all coming to pieces and washing away, nothing left but the fear. She fisted her hands in his bloodied Auror leathers and buried her face against his chest and cried, and cried and cried, while he stroked the back of her head and helplessly said things like, _it's okay, Hermione_, and, _I'm so sorry_, and, _you can get through this, I know you can_.

And everything Draco said to her was a lie – all lies, lies, _lies_, Hermione thought frantically, and she knew for the first time in her life, with absolute _certainty_, that she wasn't going to get out of this okay.

**# # # # # #**

**Author's Note:** So, what did you think? Did you like it? ::hopeful face:: I feel a little like I need to apologise about the fact that not an awful lot of _plot _really happened in this chapter – but I felt like there needed to be an establishing chapter, to set the _tone_. I hope the chapter didn't bore you! There will be more exciting plot developments and events will be happening next chapter, I promise!

_**Please review!**_


	4. Blood From A Stone

**Author's Note: **So many reviews! Love you all so, so, so much! Once more, I listened to _Cloud Atlas_ _Sextet_, as well as the song quoted at the start of the story.

Just to clarify, because I may not have made it clear enough, "Omake: I'll Make It Better" was just a dream of Hermione's – the one she wakes up from in "Prologue: Just Beginning". I did it because this story is going to get _very _heavy, and if you don't like that kind of thing, then Omake gives you a nice happy alternate ending, instead of having to wade through a sea of angst to get to an also happy (but different) ending.

**Trigger Warnings:** For like, um, everything? Lol, no, not quite, but **this chapter is **_**not **_**for the squeamish**. I haven't gone for the usual tropes though, but badstuff _will_ be happening. I'm really indulging my, ah, sadistic side, with this chapter in particular, and this story in general to a lesser extent. So do not read if you don't like bad/squeamish/horrible things. Consider yourselves thoroughly warned :D

**Edited to add specific TW for graphic discussion of and implied rape – sorry guest, I should have been more specific in my initial TWs**

_Abandon all hope, ye who enter here._

**# # # # # #**

_**1. Blood From A Stone**_

_Cue to your heart that is racing_

_Stung by the look in your eye_

_Cue to your heart that is racing_

_What a surprise_

…

_Cue your face so forsaken_

_Crushed by the way that you cry_

_Cue your face so forsaken_

_Say goodbye_

_[Summer's Gone, Placebo]_

**# # # # # #**

In the end, Hermione simply ran out of tears. Her sinuses were stuffed, her eyes bloodshot, and she was still clinging to Draco – her arms wrapped around his waist, and her face pressed into his leathers, absorbing the scent of his sweat and blood. She tried to pretend that all that existed was him and her, and he _surrounded_ her – his arms tight around her, his hand clutching the back of her head and his breath hot on her scalp, the scent of him enveloping her, the hard lines of his body pressing into her as she curled half on his lap. He had been silent while she cried; just stroking her hair and back, and holding so _tightly_, as if he understood what she needed. To try to pretend. To try to shut out everything but him, just for a little while. Please god, just for a little while.

It was funny, Hermione thought, fingers digging into Draco's leathers, hooking on the rough patches and tears at his back where the glass had torn the leathers up, that after everything that had happened before the war, Draco Malfoy was her rock, now. He was the one constant in her life that was always there for her, that always put her _first_. Even when that had led to him being a stubborn idiot and trying to end things between them, it had still been because he had been putting her first, in his mind. And now, he was all that she had. In this place, feeling like a trapped rabbit, her heart beating so fast she thought she might die of the fear, he was the only thing that she could cling to. And so she did, and he sat there like a statue and let her, the only warmth to him his breath puffing into her hair, and the only movement the repetitive slide of his fingers over her matted hair.

And then reality intruded again, when he cleared his throat – shockingly loud in the silence – and said awkwardly, nudging her with side of his elbow against her waist, "I need to piss, Hermione."

She choked out a startled, half-hysterical laugh as she remembered the bucket – the _damned_ bucket – and her fingers released his leathers. She sat up stiffly, bum gone half-numb and ankle hot and heavy with the pain that bolted up her leg when she straightened it, and then waved a hand at the bucket. "Well, there are the facilities." She sounded terribly bitter to her own ears, and Draco's gaze followed her gesture to the bucket, and a funny look came over his face. His jaw clenched, the muscles bunching up and flexing as she watched, and then his gaze shifted back to her, and she couldn't read what was in those quicksilver eyes.

"At least we have the bucket, Hermione," he said at last, half-angry and raw, as though he was exposing himself to her, and then he continued and she understood that he _was_ laying himself bare, and utterly vulnerable in a way she knew he hated. "The last time I was locked up in a cell by Death Eaters, I didn't even warrant that _generosity_. So…it could be worse."

She didn't know what to say to that, blanching and then blushing hot with embarrassment for him, dropping her eyes, and stumbling out a stupid, "I – I'm sor –"

"_Don't._ Don't say anything. I don't want to _talk_ about it – that's the last thing I want to fucking do. I just thought…knowing…might give you perspective." Draco looked immeasurably weary when his eyes skimmed over her face. "It could be worse, Hermione."

She nodded silently, but it didn't really reassure her at all, or make her feel any better. She didn't think _anything_ could, except for being rescued. Draco used the bucket without any obvious self-consciousness, but when he sat back down beside her he avoided her eyes, and his face was set in grim, expressionless lines. She stared at her hands trying to build up her courage to speak. It took her five minutes to work up the courage to say, "I, uh, need to go too." Her face was _burning_ with humiliation and she stared so hard at her hands that her eyes blurred and defocused. Merlin, this was awful.

"I'd say I'd stick my fingers in my ears, but obviously _that's_ impossible," Draco said dryly after a moment, and got a tearful gasp of laughter out of Hermione. She forced herself to look up at him, and he jerked his head toward the bucket. "Go on, Hermione. I won't peek, I swear." There was a curl to his mouth and a twist to his tone that would usually have made her stomach swirl and melt, but not now. She bit her lip, unsure, and he raised an eyebrow, and very deliberately shut his eyes and pressed his forearms against his ears. "Hurry up," he said over-loudly. "This hurts my shoulder."

Hermione had never realised just how _much_ there was to appreciate about Draco, until now, at rock bottom. She hobbled around the wall to the bucket, keeping her weight off her broken ankle, and with difficulty managed to shove her chausses and knickers down and squat over the horrible thing. There was no toilet paper, and she refused to cry over that fact. If Draco could keep it together – could even try to crack lame jokes and make her smile – then she could bloody well refrain from crying over slightly damp knickers. She dragged her chausses up and hobbled back around the wall, tapped Draco on the shoulder and he smiled faintly up at her, eyes molten, and when she slid down the wall to sit beside him, he kissed her gently on the mouth.

And then it was that, just _that_; slow, languorous kissing, and her hands sliding up his neck, fingers lacing behind his head, and his mouth slanting hot over hers while his hand twisted up in her hair. There was an urgency and desperation running like a river beneath the gentle, measured way their mouths met and joined, but they both kept it held back – let it run beneath, adding a yearning intensity to the kisses that made them swallow Hermione up whole. It dragged her under and made her unaware of anything but the movement of his fingers in her hair, and his tongue flicking soft and slick, and she grazed one hand down to his chest – splayed it there, and felt his heart thud steady and fast beneath her palm.

She whimpered at the loss of him when Draco released her mouth after a long, blissfully dreaming moment of absorption, and then he leant his forehead down against hers. "We _can_ get through this, Hermione," he said quietly, running the back of his index finger gently down the side of her face, tickling soft over the skin. She could feel his heart still beating steady, not wavering at all as his eyes pinned to hers unblinkingly, immovable, and_ demanding_ that she believe his words. "We _have_ to get through this."

"We – we can," she whispered hesitantly in reply, an echo of him, and she almost believed it in that moment.

**# # # # # #**

Footsteps echoed down the hallway and woke Hermione from a restless sleep curled shivering against Draco's side, the little spoon to his big one, and fear shot through her with a shocking intensity, making her eyes snap open and her whole body go rigid with tension.

"Draco," she whispered his name, and he squeezed her arm in acknowledgment that he was awake, and she shifted in his arms, rolling onto her back and staring up at his face. His eyes were open and clear when he met her gaze, with no trace of lingering sleep-fogginess, and she wondered if he had slept at all, or just lain there, watching over her and _waiting_. The footsteps clumped closer, and she stuffed a fist in her mouth to stifle a whimper of terror and his hand came up to the back of her head, pulling it to his chest and kissing the top of it.

"Sit up," he said, a whispered order harsh in her ear, and together they helped each other struggle upright on the layer of rags, clumsy with exhaustion and aching muscles. She knew why without him having to tell her – it was important that the Death Eaters didn't catch them in a moment of vulnerability. They had to appear as together and strong as possible. "You can do this. Just sit _quietly_. Let me do the talking," he murmured in her ear, and his hand squeezed hers briefly before pulling away – the Death Eaters still didn't know they were together, and it was best to keep it that way, and not give them any more ammunition. But still, Hermione's insides crumpled in on themselves when he pulled his fingers from hers.

And then the footsteps sloped to a halt in front of their cell, and a moment later, with a rusted creak, the door swung inwards, and Hermione met the eyes of a Death Eater that she didn't recognise, looming in the doorway, two hanging back in the hallway behind him.

"Traitor. Mudblood," the Death Eater in the doorway acknowledged them, his voice rough and contemptuous, his dark eyes as flat and unnerving as a dead fish's, and Hermione shuddered at what lay in them, beneath the curving, shiny surface. She didn't let her gaze drop though, just stared silently, refusing to let the big man make her cower.

"Rostan," Draco said coolly, inclining his head in a slight nod, a smirk shaping his mouth, the tension and controlled hatred radiating off him.

"The Dark Lord won't be back for a while yet, and we're _bored_," Rostan said, and his mouth formed a thin grin, his tongue darted out and slid over his lips obscenely. "We want to have a little _fun_ with the two of you."

"And would the Dark Lord approve you _playing_ with his prisoners?" Draco asked, his voice like steel and ice, his hand slapping the wall as he shoved himself unsteadily to his feet, shifting so that he stood like a shield between Rostan and Hermione. Her heart was lead in her chest now, and her blood was frozen in her veins as she played Rostan's words over and over. _A little fun. A little fun. Alittlefun. _Oh _Merlin_.

"He's not here right now, Malfoy," Rostan said, face still split by that vicious shark's grin. "And as long as we don't _kill_ you –" His head tipped to one side and he glanced at Hermione behind Draco, and she looked quickly down at the ground, like a child, praying that he wouldn't see her if she couldn't see him. "I don't think the Dark Lord would begrudge us using you for a bit of light entertainment. Now, we're going to go for a _walk_, to somewhere more _suited_ to our plans for you. Get the Mudblood up, and move your arses."

Hermione stared at Draco's back and watched as his hand slowly uncurled, fingers splaying out, and then clenched up into a fist, his shoulders stiffening. "Go fuck yourself, Rostan," he said lightly, head canting to one side, staring the other wizard down as if Rostan was some kind of specimen he was examining. And then in a blur, Rostan had slammed a hand up against Draco's throat, driving him into the cell wall beside Hermione, and she bit back a scream and skittered back from the two men in a clumsy crab walk. Rostan's free hand formed a fist, and he thudded it home into Draco's abdomen. Draco grunted and wheezed and jerked in Rostan's grip, and his knee rammed up into the meat of Rostan's thigh, and the Death Eater growled and swore.

"You fucking arrogant little _prick_. Ooh, I'm going to enjoy breaking you _all over again_," Rostan said with his mouth to Draco's ear, the words rolling off his tongue and a cruel maliciousness lighting his face. Draco's face was reddening from the hand around his throat, but he spat in Rostan's face and Hermione flinched as that prompted Rostan to hit him again. She swayed to her feet, getting dangerously close to the two struggling men – and then she palmed the biggest piece of glass she'd taken from Draco's back, staggered even closer, and raked it down Rostan's face. He howled as his flesh parted under the chunk of glass, and reared back, dropping Draco in a choking, gasping heap to the ground, and swinging his arm out. His forearm struck Hermione across the face and pain bloomed in her nose and cheek, and the glass cut into her hand as she involuntarily clutched it into a fist.

"You fucking Mudblood _bitch_," Rostan roared, and grabbed her by the hair, flinging her across the cell and the world whirled and blurred and then her bruised shoulder cracked into the stones of the wall, and a scream broke from her throat. She fell in a heap, legs going out from under her, dropping the piece of glass numbly from her bleeding hand and staring as Rostan kicked Draco in the stomach again and again, grunting with the effort. Draco was so badly bruised already that it must be sheer agony, and the vein in his temple throbbed, and the cords in his neck stood out starkly, his fingers clutched at thin air and his mouth opened in a silent scream. But he all he did was gasp and let a stifled whining sound wrench from his throat at each blow, refusing the other man the satisfaction of his screams.

"Stop it! _Stop_ –" she screamed without thinking, but then the two Death Eaters outside the cell came in and one grabbed her, hauling her to her feet by her arm – twisting it up behind her back and forcing her to put weight on her broken ankle. Through the pain that nearly whited out her vision, Hermione saw the other man go and help Rostan drag Draco up, grip his upper arms and making him stumble from the cell. His eyes met hers, his gaze dragged across hers as he was shoved past her, and there was a horror in those stone-grey eyes – a _knowing _in them; and then the Death Eater holding Hermione forced her out after Draco, hobbling on her feet and sobbing through gritted teeth at the pain.

She didn't know how long the torture took – everything was a blur of pain, and they kept _hurting _them both, and they weren't even asking them any _questions_. It was just for fun – just for _fun_, and Hermione broke apart under the curses and hexes and blows from fists and feet, and vicious, despair-inducing mockery of what _else_ she could look forward to, _next time_. She tried to stay strong at first; dangling by her wrists from the chains in the centre of the large room with the bloodstained floors, and biting her tongue bloody to stay silent. The – the _bastards_ had strung Draco up opposite Hermione so that they had to see each other every time they opened their eyes. It was knives and fists and jeering, and it was Draco who got her through. His eyes were unwavering on hers, and a constant stream of rambling support spilled form his bloodied lips, breaking off when they hurt him too badly, hissing the words between gasps.

"Look at me. _Look at me,_ Hermione."

"Eyes on me, keep your _damn_ eyes on –"

His eyes were framed by long dark lashes, his irises were charcoal rimmed, the grey growing lighter closer to his pupils, and they were flecked with silver, like shards of broken glass, his pupils contracted to pinpricks in the middle, and he kept his eyes steady on her the entire time.

"This isn't _real_. This isn't –"

"You can do it, don't give the _fuckers _the satisfaction of –"

"_Look at me, _Hermione, _damnit look –_"

"_Eyes up, keep your __**fucking**__ Merlin-damned eyes u –_"

She swayed in the chains, barely able to reach the floor on tiptoes, her arms feeling like they were being ripped from their sockets and tried to lose herself in his eyes. Tried to ignore the agony tearing through her, and not see the blood that he was soaked in – stripped bare down to his chausses, as was she – and she tried not to see or feel what was happening, but to go somewhere else, somewhere behind _his_ eyes. She tried so damn hard. She _wouldn't_ give the monsters hurting them the satisfaction of hearing her shatter and scream for them.

"Eyes on me. Fuck, _Hermione…_keep it _together_ –_ fucking __**keep it together.**_"

The Death Eaters thought it was funny, the way Draco tried to help her, tried to stop her from breaking. They laughed and they taunted and tried to turn it into part of their game, and Hermione just tried to tune them all out and focus on the silver and grey, blocked now and then by the loom of a Death Eater's body as they hurt him, or her. She tried so, so hard, hanging there staring at him and trying to seek comfort in his glazing eyes. But he was losing it too, as the torture went on and on for what seemed like _forever and ever_, his head beginning to loll from the weakness of the blood loss.

They'd hurt him worse than her. She was a mass of cuts and other hurts from the waist up, but he looked literally flayed alive, and the blood dripped off his toes which barely brushed the ground, puddling on the floor as he hung there, still gasping in bare, rattling wheezes and spitting out, "Look at me. It's going to be okay, Hermione, it's –"

But that was a _lie_, just like _everything else_ he'd said since they were captured, and it _wasn't_ okay – the pain just went on and on without end, and Draco's words became nothing more than meaningless sounds to her ears that she _hated_, and Hermione broke, and she _screamed_. She screamed and she begged and she wailed and pleaded _just how they had wanted her to_. And opposite her, Draco kept staring into her eyes and dragging those words from his throat like he couldn't stop, the blood dripping down his chin from where he'd bitten through his tongue to keep himself from screaming.

**# # # # # #**

She did so well. So fucking well. He was amazed by how _strong_ she was, how she had held out for so fucking long. Even _he_ had screamed, in the end, sometime long after she'd passed out and they'd hauled her off like a piece of meat for perfunctory healing, so she didn't die. They just didn't _stop_ until you screamed, and sometimes, not even then, so eventually, you always broke. In the end, _everyone_ broke. But it was important to hold out as long as you could – not _give in_, because that was how they _really_ broke you. When you stopped fighting, when you accepted it – that was when you were beaten, and became theirs, body and soul.

And Draco had been to that place, and he _never_ wanted to go there again.

His toes dragged on the ground as they hustled him along back to the cell, only half-conscious and head hanging limply, the damage they had inflicted already nearly healed, but the weakness and the pain lingering, despite the blood-replenishing potion they'd forced down his throat. The ground beneath him stopped moving, and he heard the clank of the bolt as they drew it back, the creak of the door as they opened it, and then they threw him into the cell, dumping him in a heap on the floor like he was _nothing_, and then they slammed the door closed behind them. It was over again – for now.

The stones beneath him were freezing on Draco's naked upper body, and leached what little warmth he had left to him out of his body, leaving him trembling uncontrollably as shock and blood loss seized him. Soft cold skin touched him then, hands running over his shoulders and his arms and chest, and hot wetness splashed on his jaw, spattering down like warm rain.

"Her – Hermione?"

A choked sob answered him, and he made himself sit up with weak, wobbling muscles, her hands tugging at his upper arms and trying to help, and then he was staring at her blotchy, stricken face, only inches from his. He smiled at her faintly, a reassurance, the expression feeling wrong and foreign on his face. He had to keep it together, for her, had to be strong and undaunted, and face everything stoically. She'd never been through this before. She didn't know…she couldn't… Draco had to try to get her through this, because he didn't know if she could stay sane if he fell apart and she was alone.

"God, Draco, I thought you were never coming back," she gasped through a sea of tears, hands still clutching at his shoulders and cheeks and neck, like she was afraid he was going to vanish on her. "I was afraid…"

Draco held out his arms to her wordlessly, and she half _fell_ onto him, both of them heedless of their only-just-sealed wounds and the pain that radiated like cold fire through their bodies. He wrapped his arms around her back, and her bare breasts pressed into his chest, and he remembered his initial fury when they stripped even her bra away. She had blazed red with shame and humiliation, and when they had taunted her with what they would do to her _next time_, and commented favourably on her breasts, and on what use they could put her mouth to, she had wept. She had wept, and they had taunted and jeered, and Draco had only been able to _watch_. He held her tighter to him now, a fury so deep that he couldn't even _begin_ to express it roiling in his chest like a physical thing, raging and seething and just _waiting_ for the chance to get free.

"I – I –" she started after a few moments, and then nothing else, just silent tears. He knew how she felt. There wasn't anything much you could say, after what they had just been through. There wasn't any way to communicate the depths of fear and pain and violation that were birthed in you while you were being tortured. While you were being turned into a plaything for sadistic, evil, monsters, who _fed_ on your screams, who _drank_ up the sight of your agony with a smile. Talking about it…didn't always help. Sometimes it just rubbed on wounds that were already unbearably raw. Especially when you knew it was going to happen again, and again, and _again_. Draco dragged in a rough breath.

"I know," he said, and buried his face in the crook of her neck, breathing in the smell of _her_ beneath the medicinal scent of the potions they'd smeared her wounds with.

"But you – you never –"

"I did, actually." The muscles in his jaw were so tight with tension and fury he felt like they were going to cramp. "Everybody does, Hermione, in the end." He paused and debated whether to say it or not, but added with a watery wry smile into her neck, "You did well. _So_ fucking well. Better than I thought you would. I suppose it's the noble, stubborn Gryffindor in you, hmm?"

She made a funny gurgling sound that resembled a laugh. "No. It's the noble, stubborn Slytherin _with_ me."

He didn't know what to say to _that_, but the fact that she could joke, however weakly, warmed him a little. Reassured him. "Glad I could be of service," he said after a brief pause, trying to say it with his old, arrogant aplomb, and Hermione snorted at him, just how she used to. One part amusement, one part derision, and _all_ Hermione. She shivered against him, and it made him realise how fucking cold _he_ was in the damp, chill stone cell – they hadn't gotten their leathers back, and the draught from the vent whisked over his skin, raising goosebumps in its path.

"We should wrap up," he said, jerking his head at the filthy rags and curling his lip, because they were disgusting, but better than nothing.

She looked at him with pure sharp misery in her eyes as he fussily tucked a dirt-encrusted, moth-eaten old wool blanket around her shoulders. "They took my _clothes_. They – in front of everyone, they just _stripped_ me, like – like I was _nothing_. Like…" There was anger and indignation in her voice, Draco was glad to note – she still had her spirit – but it was overshadowed by humiliation and shame. "Like I was just a – a…thing. I was just a _thing._"

"You're _not_. You know that. They want you to feel that way. Don't let them. It's just skin, Hermione. There's nothing shameful about it. They're just trying to make you feel vulnerable. It's –" He tried to explain it, to maybe make it easier for her to put it into the perspective of _tactics_, and fight against the feelings it evoked, but she caught his eyes with her own and he broke off, rubbing his eyes and feeling useless. Hermione understood it was just standard tactics perfectly well; of course she did – she was far from bloody stupid, and everyone in the Order must have been briefed on what to expect if they were captured. But knowing _why_ didn't make the things that the Death Eaters did _that_ much easier to cope with. Hardly any easier at all, if Draco was honest with himself.

There was another long, miserable silence.

"They're going to rape me, aren't they," Hermione said flatly, eyes not leaving Draco's face, and the breath caved out of him like she'd punched him. He couldn't look at her. He buried his face into the palm of his hand, speaking into it.

"Yes."

The one flat word was like death and ashes on his lips, and he felt sick to his stomach for saying it, revolted and horrified with empathy for Hermione.

"_God_." Her voice cracked and broke, and her eyes finally slid from his, focusing on a hole in the blanket that she was absently picking at with ragged nails. "_God._"

"Hermione, I…_ Fuck, _Hermione, I…" But there was nothing he could do, and nothing he could say, and saying how sorry he was, how much he wished he could protect her and keep it from happening – well, all that just sounded as fucking unhelpful as shit. Because she already knew those things. So instead they just sat side by side, blanket-wrapped backs against the wall, and upper arms brushing together, silent but for her angry tears.

"It's like a _death sentence_, Draco. _Knowing_ that they're going to – I _hate_ them, _so much_. I'm so _angry_, and I'm so _scared_, and I don't know what to…how to… _How am I supposed to deal with this?_" She jerked her head up, wrapping her arms around her middle and glaring at him, voice shrilling and breaking. "What the _hell_ am I supposed to _do?_"

Draco held her furious, desperate gaze with an effort – it was so hard not to flinch away from the raw pain in her eyes. He swallowed. "I don't think anything can make the waiting better. But when – _fuck_, when they…do it, try to…be somewhere else." Now he couldn't hold her eyes, but it had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with him. Guilt and shame bubbled up in him, cloying and awful.

"What?" she asked sharply, and he shrugged, eyes on his lap. "Try to be somewhere else. To not – not be present. Not let them touch your mind, just your body. Just flesh, not _you_. That's all. It's not much but I've… I've, ah, heard that helps a bit."

She shifted away from him and he could feel her gaze burning into him. "What?" she asked, suddenly bitter and sharp, all her helpless rage and fury directed onto the nearest convenient target – him. "And where did you hear _that? _From _prisoners_, before you defected?"

There was accusation in her voice and it _hurt_. It hurt more than he could tell her, or ever show her, but he just ground his teeth together and jerked out a brief, furious nod. She was just lashing out, and Draco told himself to let her have this outlet. She needed it. "Something like that," he said shortly, and looked away.

"I thought you said you never raped –" she began in a revolted tone, as if she was suddenly questioning everything, and the doubt and mistrust of Draco in her voice made his determination to let her lash out falter and fail.

"_I didn't!_" He was suddenly even angrier than she was, and he could feel himself go hot and red as he yelled the words, jerking back from her and glaring at her so that they faced each other furiously, all the strain and hurt and fear channelled into anger at each other. "_I fucking __**told **__you, Hermione. _I. Never. Did. That." He bit each word out like it had personally offended him, cold and harsh, and she stared at him in wounded confusion, and he could see she believed him but she didn't fucking understand.

"I just…"

"They wouldn't have told me that if I was the one – the one _raping_ them, now would they? Use your _fucking_ head."

"I'm _so sorry_ I hurt your precious _feelings_, Draco, but you're not the one who's going to be…" She blanched and didn't say the word, finishing in a small voice, "_I am_."

He couldn't say it. Couldn't. And she needed him to not be angry at her right now. He couldn't handle this. He couldn't fucking handle this. Tomorrow…

"_Fuck. _Fuck-fuck-_fuck._" He took a deep breath and tried very hard to be calm. Held out his hand to her and after a brief hesitation Hermione clutched onto it like it was a lifeline. "I love you," he said – all he _could_ say. "I love you and nothing will ever change that, Hermione. _Nothing_. You understand? Anything they do tomorrow – that's not on you, it says nothing about _you_ and who you are and what you're worth, it's on _them_. All on _them. Understood?_"

Hermione stared into Draco's eyes, and he could see her searching for the lie, and finding none. And then she nodded, terrified but stoic, her jaw set and her eyes horribly fragile. "I'm sorry I accused you of…"

"It's all right," he told her, and she deflated into his arms with a shudder, and they huddled together under their filthy blankets in a heartsick silence, the time ticking away, and it was anything but all right.

**# # # # # #**

Their silent wait was broken when two glasses of water and one bowl of watery stew were pushed through the bottom of the cell door. They sipped at the water, trying to make it last, and shared the stew between them, and it barely made a dent in Hermione's ravenous hunger. She didn't understand how she could be hungry, at a time like this, but she _was_. They both had to use the bucket again a while after they'd drunk the water, and Hermione felt hot shame blossom on her cheeks again. It was stupid to be embarrassed by _that_ when she knew what was coming tomorrow, but she couldn't help it.

She still ached all over from the torture, despite the damage having been healed, but it was her _mind_ that really felt flayed open. She felt like she'd been ripped open and torn apart, and it was going to happen all over again tomorrow, only worse, and she couldn't stand the thought. But there was nothing to distract her, nothing to counter the despair that oozed through her like poison. Draco tried to talk and distract her, to act like everything was _normal_, but Hermione couldn't do it. She wanted to go home. She wanted Ron and Harry, and she wanted to be curled up in her cosy bed at Godric's Hollow with Draco. She wanted her mother and father to protect her from the monsters, like they had when she was only little.

She was cold, her ankle hurt and so did the rest of her, and the blanket itched, and the floor was hard despite the layer of rags, and she couldn't stop thinking with numbed horror about _tomorrow_. Even with Draco wrapped around her like a blanket himself, it took a very long time for exhaustion to drag her down, and even then, there were the nightmares.

**# # # # # #**

She awoke in the protective curl of Draco's arms to the muffled sounds of people talking in the hallway outside their cell, her body stiff and aching, her head feeling like it was stuffed with cotton, and her tongue fuzzy and dry.

"Who's going to take the first turn at the mudblood?" one of the voices asked casually, as if they were discussing who got the last piece of cake, and Hermione's blood ran cold, and she tried not to vomit. She didn't have to look to see if Draco was awake, because his arms had jerked painfully tight around her when the Death Eater had spoken, and his low, furious hiss sounded on the air. She was _not_ a piece of meat, she was _not _an object, a _thing_ to be passed around, she raged inwardly. Except she was completely helpless and there was no way to stop them, no way to prevent them from turning her _into_ that, despite what Draco had said last night about not letting them, and about it not saying anything about _her_ and her worth.

His arms were so tight around her now that she couldn't breathe properly, but right now she didn't want him to let her go. There was a false sense of safety in being curled up with him, and she rolled towards him and allowed herself the comfort of that faux-security, pressing her face into his chest and smelling the lingering traces of blood, and stronger scent of sweat, which didn't bother her – it just smelt like _him_, and that was welcome.

"She fucking _cut_ me – I should get first go at the little dirty-blood slut," Rostan growled, and Hermione could hear her own breath loud and ragged in her ears as the Death Eaters argued over who would get the privilege of raping her first, and who would end up with sloppy seconds, or thirds, or fourths. Her chest was unbearably tight, and panic and fear made her break out in a sweat, her eyes squeezed shut until she saw dancing lights behind her eyelids. Draco's mouth pressed against the top of her head, and his fingers dug painfully into her back.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into her hair with desperate, miserable realism. He had never been one to deny the reality of a situation, and now, at the crunch, he'd stopped trying to reassure her by lying to her like he had during the torture. She had hated him in the end, for all telling her it would be okay when it clearly _wasn't_. But Merlin, it hurt to hear him say _I'm sorry_ like that, now, all clouded and dull with defeat and hopelessness.

For a moment Hermione wished Draco would lie to her again, and tell her it would be all right. That he would tell her he would protect her, murmuring the lie that he wouldn't let it happen into her ear. Let her pretend for a moment that he would be the prince in a fairytale and save her. _I won't let it happen. I won't let them touch you. I'll keep you safe, I promise. _The bolt on the cell door rammed back, and Draco bent his head so his lips brushed against the shell of her ear, and she held her breath, waiting for him to say it. The pretty, pretty lies.

"I love you," he said, rough and harsh and half-_angry_, the words hot on her skin. "Remember that, Hermione."

And then he rolled to his feet with a grunt of pain and stood between her and the door as it creaked open, his thin, broad shoulders back and the crisscross of the sealed cuts from yesterday's torture stark on the pale skin of his back.

"We're here for the mudblood, Malfoy. _Move._"

"No," he said calmly, and Hermione knew what was coming, and she suddenly wished he wouldn't. She didn't want Draco to be hurt just to delay the inevitable.

"I wasn't asking, Malfoy. I know how much you love it when we play with you, judging from the way you _screamed_, but today we just want the mudblood. So fucking move, or _I'll move you_."

Draco studied the nails on his hand with complete disregard for Rostan's looming, and said with casual contempt, "I would've have thought, that with all the time you and Goyle Senior always used to spend buggering each other in dark corners, you wouldn't have any energy left for the prisoners, Rostan."

The big Death Eater's hand came up as he snarled wordlessly, and Draco tried to duck but his reflexes were dulled by weakness and exhaustion, and he stumbled to the side as the back of Rostan's hand struck his face. He hissed and regained his footing, wobbling on his feet and spitting dark blood on the floor and dragging his wrist over his face and Hermione saw it come down smeared in blood.

"Always had the energy for you, didn't I, Malfoy?" Rostan jeered, shoving Draco back a step with a thrust of his hand to Draco's chest, and Hermione's forehead furrowed as that niggled at her strangely and Draco's head jerked back as though Rostan had struck him. And then Draco sucked in a breath and from his stance Hermione knew that he'd jutted his chin up in the air and was sneering down his nose at Rostan.

"That the best you've got, Rostan? A few pathetic taunts and a slap, a push or two? What are we, children on the playground?"

"Oh no, I'd show you my best, Malfoy, but today we're here for the little mudblood bitch."

Hermione watched with the blanket tight around her shoulders protecting her modesty, heart in her throat as Draco flowed forward then, kneeing Rostan in the crotch before the big man could dodge it. Rostan crumpled bent double, swearing up a storm and Draco grabbed Rostan's straggling hair in his hand and smashed his face down to meet his knee and Hermione heard a _crunch_ and Rostan howled. And then the other Death Eaters – three of them – poured in the door, and two of them swarmed Draco, while the third grabbed Hermione and hauled her to her feet. She fought him, the blanket falling to the floor unheeded, the Death Eater's fingernails sharp on her arm, and she lashed out with the heel of her hand, caught him square in the nose and felt a _crrrck_, and he slapped her so hard she saw stars and staggered, putting her weight on her broken ankle and screaming.

Draco was down now, on the floor, and she saw blurred glimpses of him as the Death Eater wrenched her and dragged her to the door – his white-blond hair streaking with fresh blood, his knees drawing up to his chest as the Death Eaters kicked him, the dazed look to his grey eyes, as if he was somewhere very far inside himself, the spray of blood from his nose when one of the men struck him full in the face. She screamed his name unashamedly, feet scrabbling at the floor as she tried to resist, tried to get back to him. She fought like Crookshanks would have – wild and snarling; biting the Death Eater holding her, clawing at his face and raking her nails down his arms, and when he grabbed her wrists and pinned them both, kicking out at his legs and stamping on his feet, ignoring the pain that thudded into her flesh with each retaliatory blow.

She _fought_; even if Hermione _knew_ she was going to lose, she would _fight_, because she was damned if she was going to go quietly.

They got her out into the hallway, her thrashing madly still and screaming, and then a voice cut the air. "What are you doing with the girl?" a familiar voice asked, in his usual bored, scathing tones. Hermione froze in the Death Eater's grip and her eyes travelled up, from the billowing black hem of the man's robes, up to the high collar, and then the contemptible, contemptuous face framed by the greasy black hair. Professor – sorry, she corrected herself bitterly at the sight of the traitor, _Headmaster _Snape. She remembered suddenly that she was shirtless and exposed, and her cheeks heated fiercely with a stupid, ridiculous turn of modesty.

"Taking 'er out to play with," Rostan leered, and Snape's eyebrow slowly lifted, and Hermione wondered with a hint of hysteria, if Draco had copied Snape's eyebrow raise, because she suddenly realised it was disturbingly nearly _exactly_ the same.

"No," Snape said, his dark eyes roaming blatantly over Hermione's body and her skin crawled, and she wanted nothing more to run and hide herself, or scrub herself raw, because his gaze made her feel _dirty_. She tried to wrench her arms free to cover her chest, but the Death Eater holding her kept them trapped behind her, and she wanted to cry.

"No? And why is _that_, Severus?" Rostan asked contemptuously, and Snape didn't even bothering looking at him when he answered, his eyes still on Hermione. A potions-stained finger – long and bony and _cold_ – reached out and trailed over the side of Hermione's breast, and she bucked back and tried to wriggle away from it.

"Get your hands off me you sick _bastard! Don't touch me! Don't __**touch**__**me!**_"

Snape smiled coldly, and the cold, gentle slide of that finger dropped away after a few seconds longer. "Because _I _want the girl, and the Dark Lord has promised me a reward for my loyal service in the past months – and I have decided _Miss Granger_ here is the reward I would like."

Hermione stared at Snape in horror, cheeks still flaming with anger and humiliation, skin crawling with the sick memory of his chill touch. Oh _god_, oh _Merlin_, this couldn't be happening. This couldn't be happening. She felt like being sick everywhere, and her stomach tried to crawl its way out her throat and her face crumpled up.

"Oh _yeah?_ Is she now? Well until you ask the Dark Lord, she's still ours to do with what we like, _Snivellus._" Rostan snarled, and Snape's gaze slid to him – cold on the other Death Eater's face, utterly silent, just giving him that superior, disgusted look, and Rostan dropped his eyes first.

"You will leave the girl here, until I have made my request of the Dark Lord. I do not care what you do with her, except that she shall remain unscarred, and unviolated." Snape's voice was a bored drawl, but there was steel there, and Hermione moaned, ducking her head, her hair – now half fallen out of its braid – obscuring her face. "I will not have your seconds, _Rostan_. There are others you can satisfy your…needs with. But _she_ will remain untouched. Do you understand me?"

"_Fine_," Rostan growled, furiously, and then Hermione was being shoved roughly back into the cell, and in the whirl of movement she caught a flash of Snape's face and thought she saw the tiniest bit of _regret_ on those thin, haughty features, and her brow furrowed. That seemed important, somehow. But then she was sprawling on the cold floor, bumping her elbow and banging her hip, and when she looked up to the doorway, Snape was gone, and Rostan was marching in. He stood over Draco, who was panting and gasping from the brief, vicious beating he'd gotten, hair falling over his face as he glared up at Rostan from between the two Death Eaters looming over him.

"Looks like we'll have need of you today after all, traitor," Rostan sneered, and Hermione shuddered because she didn't want him to be tortured again, not after they'd already just hurt him, not after yesterday, not without her there because they were in this _together_. She opened her mouth to protest uselessly, but Draco's face snapped to hers, and he glared, pressing his lips together hard, his meaning clear – shut up, don't draw their attention again. She did as he asked although she didn't want to, huddling back against the back right corner of the cell in the shadows and watching as Rostan hauled Draco to a stagger on his feet.

"Just like old times, eh, Malfoy?" Rostan leered, his big hand loosely encircling Draco's throat for a moment, grinning that shark's grin, and Draco _blanched_ utterly white and his head fell forward. She saw his expression though as his shoulders slumped and his head hung – he looked like _defeat_, like hopeless _resignation_, and Hermione stared at him, confusion seeded amongst her horror. _He_ was the one who had said they needed to _fight_ and not give in, not concede defeat. Rostan, and the Death Eater who had held Hermione, grabbed Draco by the arms and started to hustle him out of the room, and his name burst past her lips unbidden, muffled behind her hand. Draco heard her, and his head lifted and he looked back over his shoulder at her, grey eyes glazed and very, very far away.

"It'll be all right, Hermione," he grated, his face drawn in stark, hopeless, _frightened_ lines – he wasn't even _trying_ to make the lie believable anymore and Hermione choked on a sob. And then the door slammed shut, and she buried her face in her hands, the denial looping over and over in her head – it _wasn't _all right, it _wasn't, it wasn't_.

**# # # # # #**

Hermione didn't know how much time passed between the cell door closing and then opening again, but she was sitting on the pile of rags, one knee drawn up to her chest, her leg with the broken ankle stretched out in front of her, a blanket around her shoulders and her arms wrapped around her knee, head buried in the dark hollow she'd created. She was weary and numb beyond belief, a constant low-level horror consuming her, until she just felt emotionally _drained_. She had no more tears left, and a stoic resignation was starting to sheathe her bones like lead. They had no choice but to live through this, until they were rescued or escaped, and she just didn't have enough tears to sob over everything that horrified her, because there was _so much_. She looked up at the creak of the door, dully frightened.

And then Draco stumbled into the room like he'd been pushed, and his arms flailed out like he was going to fall before he regained his balance and just stood there for a minute, not looking at her, breathing hard through his nose in snorts of air. She stared at him, too afraid to speak first. The cell door boomed shut, and Draco shuddered then, and she could see his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard. Hermione had expected him to be deposited in the room unconscious, or covered in blood again, or shivering in the aftermath of too many _Crucios_, but instead he was upright and…something didn't seem right. A creeping suspicion crawled its way up her spine with clawing, icy fingers.

Why didn't he seem hurt worse? Something was wrong – she didn't know what, but it _was _and Hermione's eyes swept over Draco urgently, her heart in her throat. His chausses, low on his hips and unlaced, flapped open as he staggered across the cell to the bucket, hand slapping up against the wall and holding himself upright as he vomited violently into the bucket, gasping and retching. The rectangular striped light from the barred window in the door hit the right side of his neck and shoulder, and Hermione's eyes picked out the dark red blossom of a small bruise on the side of his neck, under the sharp edge of his jaw, and her stomach flipped and she wanted to vomit herself as knowledge took on a nebulous shape in her mind.

There was a deep ringed bite mark on the ball of his right shoulder, and stong tremors ran through him as he leant against the wall with his left hand, head hanging, and wrenching in whistling, ragged breaths as he finally stopped retching.

_No_. _**No.**_

"Draco?" her voice was a tiny thing that should have come from a mouse rather than a human, and she saw the muscles in his back and shoulders and arms tense and ripple under the skin at the sound of his name, his head jerked up.

"What?" he rasped as if it took a great effort, and he sounded just as strange as she did; low and ragged and _hollow_ somehow.

"Are – are you…okay?" _Stupid question, stupid bloody question, Hermione_, she scolded herself silent and panicked as soon as she realised she had blurted it out, and Draco laughed breathlessly, a sound that held no humour or life whatsoever, and turned to face her, and the light fell over his chest and throat, highlighting a quilt of ragged, bleeding bite marks and small, red bruises on his flesh, and Hermione replayed Rostan's words to Draco in her head, and then _she_ was scrambling desperately on her hands and knees for the bucket.

She reached it just in time, emptying her meagre stomach contents into it and then panting and choking down on the stomach convulsions, not wanting to spend the next ten minutes bringing up sour, acidic bile and nowt else. She was on all fours, and Draco's legs were right beside her, unmoving, and she followed them up, past his unlaced chausses, up his marred torso to his face, and saw an expression there that she had never thought to see on _Draco's_ face.

She couldn't even describe it properly, but she thought she saw self-loathing and utter defeat in the mix, and then she was screaming at herself in her head for her reaction, because what would _he _think of the way she'd reacted? What would _he_ think of that reaction? What would… _Stupid, Hermione, __**stupid**_, she cursed herself, and tipped back onto her bum, biting back a cry as her ankle twisted and then bumped on the floor.

"I didn't –" she began feebly, her eyes as wide as saucers on his face – that swollen, bloodied mouth and those shuttered grey eyes, and Draco cut her off sharply, his voice as flat and cold as his eyes. "I'm fine, Hermione. I'm _fine_."

She pushed herself to her good foot, using the wall as a prop, and her eyes scraped over his face, searching, and he looked away from her. "But…" she started, her heart squeezing so tight she thought it was going to _pop_, clammy all over in some sort of strange reaction to the horror, and Draco slashed his hand through the air, swaying on his feet.

"_I'm fine_," he growled, jaw clenched and teeth gritted, and then limped and staggered his way to the pile of rags that was their bed. She followed him, hop-hop-limping her way along the wall and reaching the rags at the same time as him.

"I –" She needed to say _something_. There had to be _something_ she could say.

"_Hermione_." Her name was both a threat and a plea on his swollen lips, and she snapped her mouth shut with a whimper, leaning against the wall and staring at him uselessly as he eased himself painfully to his side and lay down, knees drawn up slightly, hand clenched into a tight fist under his chin and eyes screwed shut. She slumped down next to him, and tentatively slid her hand over his shoulder, feeling like she was trying to gentle a frightened animal as he jolted under her touch and nearly pulled away, before settling back how he had been. Allowing her to touch him. She stared down at his taut features, her hand soothing down his shoulder and arm in feathery, uncertain strokes, and saw a tear leak from his lashes, trickling an unsteady path down across his face to his nose, dripping off the bridge of it onto the rags.

"Draco…" Hermione tried again, and he sighed and bit his lip hard before he spoke wearily, his chin trembling. "Don't, Hermione. Just don't. _Please._"

Hermione wriggled down onto one elbow on her side, facing him – at a complete loss because _he'd _had the role of the strong one in this situation, he had been the cold, grim, determined one, who knew what to do and why, and now he…just wasn't, anymore. Her lips pressed very lightly down against Draco's temple and he flinched again, and then pressed closer to her with a choked sound, lifting his head and pillowing it on her forearm by her elbow, his breath tickling against the side of her breast. Her arm curled around Draco's back, and his hand came up and fisted in Hermione's hair, pulling her head down to him, her mouth crushed to his cheek, and his sobbing breaths rough and hot, puffing out against her chest.

They clung to each other, silent but for his sobbing, choking rasps, and Hermione decided that if they got out of here alive, she wasn't going to feel the _least _bit bad about _crucioing_ every one of these Death Eaters until they fucking _died_ of it.

**# # # # # #**

**Author's Note: **So… Yeah, that was ah, that was…that… God, I have no idea _how_ y'all are going to react to this chapter, but I absolutely _loved _writing it.

I ended up really wanting to reverse the usual trope of Hermione getting raped, and this was how I did that. Plus, you should all know by now – if you read _Risk_ – that I have a penchant for making really, really shitty things happen to Draco. It's my guilty pleasure :p

I _really_ hope you liked it though! I wanted to evoke some intense _feels_ this chapter – empathy, horror, disgust, squeamishness – any sort of emotive reaction really, and if I did that, then yay :) I'm kind of worried everyone is going to hate this chapter…but at the end of the day it seemed right for my story, and I get that it's not everyone's cup of tea – which is why all the warnings at the top of the chapter, etc.

So please, please, please, if you did like it, then tell me in a **review**! I'm all tied up in nervous knots over here :-/

Also, the title (from the song) refers to Draco, and the Death Eaters trying to break him. I thought it was a nice little comparison-y symbolism-y thing ::shrugs::

**Spoiler-ish note:** There are about two or three chapters left of Draco and Hermione being captured, at the very most, and then the plot will be moving ahead, and things won't be quite so terrible after that, for those of you who aren't overly keen on the horror/angst sort of stuff.


	5. Are You Afraid

**Author's Note: **No, you're not hallucinating! It's another chapter already! ::gasps:: God, I've been typing like a demon :p Thank you so much for all your reviews! I love, love, love hearing from you all! For those of you who aren't keen on Draco and Hermione being captured, I estimate only one more chapter of capture after this, and then the story will move on. Neither this chapter nor the next one are as graphic as the last one, imo, though, although the emotions within are still pretty intense. This chapter focuses more on how they cope with the situation, than what the situation is – I feel I illustrated that pretty well last chapter :p

**Trigger Warnings for graphic violence, rape, discussion of trauma resulting from rape, graphic sexual content, waaay too much angst.**

_Abandon hope, all ye who enter here._

**# # # # # #**

**2. Are You Afraid**

_I swear that I can go on forever again_

_Please let me know that my one bad day will end_

_I will go down as your lover, your friend_

_Give me your lips and with one kiss we begin_

_Are you afraid of being _alone?

'_Cause I am, I'm lost without you_

_[Lost Without You, Blink 182]_

**# # # # # #**

Six days passed, as near as she could guess from the number of meals that had been shoved through the bottom of their cell door – one a day, it seemed, and they had both lost weight they could little afford to lose. She got her period three days after they'd been captured – she didn't have her pills – and that made her more miserable than she'd thought was possible. The humiliation and embarrassment of having her period in these conditions with only a bucket for a toilet and no _privacy _was awful, and of course the Death Eaters wouldn't provide feminine sanitary products, so she'd had to sacrifice some of their filthy rags for the job, and it was just utterly _horrible_. At least they got _scourgified _after they'd been tortured, which was, she thought bitterly, _something_ positive.

And Draco had never said a single word about her having her period although he obviously couldn't help _knowing_, and he never acted disgusted either, thank _Merlin_. The first day they both tried to _ignore_ it, until that night she'd woken before midnight all curled up around the cramps to find him sitting next to her, awake. He'd been tearing one of the cleanest rags into strips and folding them neatly up for her to use, his face pale and eyes catching the faint light, a far away contemplative look to him as his long fingers tore the cloth with careful _riiiips_. She thought it was the most romantic thing she'd ever seen. And the next afternoon, when she was crying from the cramps and the torture and the _everything_, he'd sat himself behind her and leaned her back against his chest and silently rubbed her tummy in firm little kneading circles, and it _helped._

They were tortured every day, for what she thought was a couple of hours on average, but seemed far, far longer, and then roughly healed afterwards. Hermione had hoped she might become inured to it – the torture – but she _didn't_. Merlin, every single time it hurt just as much, and it felt like it was stretching her thinner and thinner, until now she was see-through, transparent, hardly there at all. Between hunger and exhaustion and the trauma of the torture, Hermione felt like it was all just a horrible, horrible nightmare – except when they stabbed her down with the pain and trapped her in her body, like a butterfly caught on a pin. Then it felt real. So real.

On the seventh day of their capture, Rostan came and took Draco away again, and returned him covered in the evidence of what he alone had to suffer, thanks to Snape's curious intervention on Hermione's behalf. The Death Eaters never bothered healing the bite marks and the dark hickeys and brutally bruised fingermarks they left on Draco's body, and Hermione thought they left them on purpose. As a way to further the torture – to _remind _him he was _theirs_, and she had never thought she could hold this much hate inside her body and heart before, but now she was an ocean of it. That night she waited until Draco had silently cried himself to sleep – hiding his face from her, his head buried against her chest like a child's – before she broke down and wept too. He didn't need the weight of her sorrow as well – his own hurt was enough for him to bear.

He retreated into himself after that – a defensive mechanism she thought – and then it was _her_ who was left to be the strong one, _her _who had to hold them both together, and Hermione felt like she was all alone in this cell, and the strain was slowly tearing her limb from limb. She felt like she was going mad, and she talked to him at night, in the pitch black – told him the fuzzy memories of the dream she'd had, and the bright future it had held. Told him that it would be okay, and that at least they were together. Sometimes, after a particularly bad day, Hermione would be the one huddled up in silence wishing that she was dead, and Draco would bring himself out of wherever he was in his head enough to murmur desperate apologies to her, as if he was responsible for this – which he _wasn't_, stupid boy – and tried to comfort her the best that he was able to.

They were still alive though, and in her better moments, Hermione remembered some old saying about 'where there's life, there's hope.' Hermione wasn't so sure about that, but she tried to be positive. It wasn't easy, especially not when they were hurting her, and she was staring into those far away grey eyes opposite her and repeating in her head what he no longer said. She would hear it in his voice, and that helped. _Look at me. Keep your eyes on me. It's going to be okay. It's not real. Look at me, Hermione. Don't give them the satisfaction._ But in reality he just hung there, staring at her slit-eyed and bloody until he couldn't take it anymore and began to _scream_ – but until then, he was silent as the grave. It frightened her so much.

She shifted on their bed of rags, trying not to disturb him – she had her hand on his shoulder, feeling him twitch in his restless sleep, and stroking his arm to soothe him. It was between midnight and six am at the moment, which she only knew for certain because she'd heard one of the Death Eaters say something about how the torches in the hallway outside their cell were extinguished at midnight. This was the quiet time, when they were guaranteed to be left to themselves, and it was these moments Hermione treasured now – clutched them to her heart like they were a precious prize, instead of a measly bit of _peace_ that she shouldn't have to be grateful for.

And then Hermione heard a sound. She froze and looked up in the dark, and heard a shuffle outside the cell, like shoes sliding soft on stone, and the faintest rustle of robes brushing together. This wasn't usual; they never came at night, and the break in routine made her frightened. She debated whether to wake Draco, but in the end, held her tongue. Rostan had taken him again today, and he had spent an hour retching helplessly into the bucket when Rostan had dumped his maimed body on the cell floor, and then another hour just lying there shaking. He needed what rest he could get.

The faint bluish light of a _lumos_ shone through the cell door, and then a moment later, the bolt was drawn back very slowly and quietly, and for a brief moment Hermione flashed onto the hope that it was _rescue_. That it was _Harry _and _Ron_… The door creaked quietly and Snape stood there, greasy hair hanging about his face and dark eyes hard and cold, and Hermione's blood froze, and she pressed back hard into the wall as if she could fall backwards into it and be out of his slimy, chill reach. He'd gotten permission from his Dark Lord, she supposed bitterly, and now it was her turn to go through what Draco had. She looked down at his sleeping face in the light of Snape's _lumos, _and a wave of overwhelming tenderness and fear seized and clutched around her heart.

"Come for your _prize_, have you, _Headmaster?_" she spat in hardly more than a whisper – not wanting to wake Draco, and Snape _recoiled_ and gave her a disgusted look that left her blinking in confusion.

"_No_, you _stupid_ girl," he said derisively, whispering too, looking like he'd like to slap her, and Hermione's confusion only deepened. She kept her arm pressed over her breasts where the blanket didn't cover her properly, although her muscles tensed ready to fight in case he was just playing some sick, twisted game with her. But she didn't think so, somehow.

"What do you want, then?" she snapped, narrowing her eyes at him, and he looked at her in disbelief, like he wanted nothing more than to smack her repeatedly over the head with a book, in the hopes of actually beating intelligence into her.

"I'm here to help you, you foolish chit," he said scathingly, glaring at her from his looming position just within the doorway, wand held up in front him, the tip glowing blue and casting his face into harsh, unflattering light.

"Why should I believe you? You _killed Dumbledore_, you –"

"_Expecto patronum_," he half-snarled and silver flowed from his wand, and took on the form of a doe, prancing skittish and light around the room and leaving trails of silver in its wake. Despite Snape's opinion of her, Hermione knew very damn well she was anything but stupid, and her mind flashed back to what must be nearly a year ago now, and Harry telling her how the doe patronus had led him to the Sword of Gryffindor. Her eyes widened in the faint, shining light.

"It was _you_ who…"

"That much is _obvious_, Miss Granger," he snapped at her disdainfully. "Do you believe me then? Or –"

"I just – no one else _knows_, do they?" Hermione ventured, mind racing frantically as she processed the fact that Snape had been a triple agent – was a double agent, now.

"Only Dumbledore, and –"

"And you _killed_ him," she said accusingly, jabbing her finger at him. "Why, if you're on our side –" 

"I do not have time for your inane questioning, Miss Granger. Suffice it to say, no one must know, not even –" His tone softened marginally and his eyes looked regretful as he said, "– Draco. If anyone knows, and the Dark Lord plucks it from anyone's mind, then I am as good as dead."

"So why are you _here? _Right now, I mean," she clarified, and Snape crossed the room and held out a gleam of gold to her. She put out her hand both nervously and curiously, and he pressed a coin into her palm with those cold, skinny fingers.

"I cannot rescue you tonight – I cannot take you out the gate, and there are anti-apparition wards up that I must remove, which will be a…delicate task and can only be done without detection at the right moment, which is not now. It will in fact, be in eleven days time, the day before the Dark Lord's arrival. But in case of emergency, activate this coin by squeezing it and thinking of summoning me, and it will inform me you need aid." He gave her a stern look. "An _emergency_, Miss Granger. Not what _you _consider to be an emergency, but an actual life and death situation."

"Beg your pardon, Professor, but this whole _situation_ is an emergency."

"And you are doing an adequate job of surviving it," Snape said crisply, almost a compliment, before continuing, "Once I have lowered the wards, your coin will start to glow hot. From that moment, you will have exactly twelve hours to acquire a wand and disapparate before I will have to redo the wards, lest their absence be noticed. And then there will be no more chances for escape and I will have to _obliviate _youto allow the Dark Lord to view your mind without learning the truth about me, and then be able to take you, as the reward I was promised, to Hogwarts and marginal safety with me. I would, however, be unable to return you to Potter, or bring Draco with me. I would not harm you, but you would be trapped at Hogwarts, unless you were…intelligent enough to escape on your own, which I _highly _doubt."

Hermione nodded at that, accepting it all as a fair chance – better than what she had now, at any rate. "Why do you have to wait so long, Professor?" That was the only thing she didn't understand; being subjected to eleven more days of torture – the thought was _crushing_. Snape smiled thinly at her.

"I have a small hope I will not have to risk revealing myself at all, and the Order will actually manage to rescue you. However…that is doubtful."

"You still haven't told me why."

"You've barely given me a chance," he retorted. "I want you to tell Potter – and _only_ Potter, that I am on your side, and when the moment comes, he can trust that I will do whatever it takes to kill the snake. He needs to concentrate on the Dark Lord – and I will take care of the snake. So please," he drawled with bitter humour, "Tell him not to kill me before then."

Hermione's eyes widened.

"Get Potter to _obliviate_ you of the knowledge of my assistance and loyalties after you have told him – if he's skilled enough. I would rather not be killed by the Dark Lord because _you_ manage to get yourself captured again," he finished sourly, and then without another word, turned and left the room in a rustle of robes, leaving Hermione in a state of _deep_ confusion and an unspoken _thank you_ hovering on her lips. And now when the bolt snicked shut, hope throbbed in her chest, hot and heavy, and she turned the coin over and over in her fingers in the dark, threads of elation twisting together inside her. There was nothing quite so powerful as hope. She _wished_ she could tell Draco, but she couldn't – couldn't risk it. Merlin it was going to be horrible to _know_, and not tell him, but…

She slipped her coin into a pocket on her chausses, and lay down beside Draco with a sigh, and he stirred and muttered a vague plea and a protest, fear saturating his voice. She brushed her fingers over his face in the dark – the heavy stubble that was not-quite a beard now along his jaw, the cracked, dry softness of lips, the bump of his straight nose and the hollows of eyes, his lashes tickling her fingertips, and then she found his forehead, all furrowed and crinkled with the nightmare. She smoothed her thumb up between his brows and over his forehead and murmured comfort to him, and he twitched in his sleep and his hand came up searchingly, patting over her breast, and then grabbing her upper arm, before sliding loosely down to encircle her wrist and still her hand on his forehead. He was still asleep; she could tell from the steadiness of his breathing, but he was holding onto her tightly.

Hermione curled up closer to Draco, knees brushing against his, leaving her hand there at his forehead even though it twisted her arm awkwardly, and tried to get some sleep before the horrors of the next day dawned fresh and new.

**# # # # # #**

"– after the recent rash of attacks we're so undermanned we can't _afford_ to pull people away from their current missions." Remus was apologetic, and Harry shoved his hands through his hair, making it stick out in all directions, hands gesticulating as he tried and _tried_ to persuade Remus, who would not be moved.

"It's _Hermione._ We can't leave her. Fuck, Remus, it's _Hermione_. We _have_ to try to find her – it's already been twelve days that they've been captured! She could be dead by now! We need more people out there!" He was furious and flapping his hands, pacing back and forth and tugging at fistfuls of his hair, and Remus just watched him from his armchair, surrounded by an air of calm, grim stillness.

"We _are _trying Harry, but we can't spare any more than the three Aurors already searching. She could be _anywhere_, and we can't put everything in jeopardy because of her – you know she wouldn't want that."

"I don't _care_ what she wants!" Harry burst out, flinging his hands up in the air, feeling like he was going mad with this helplessness. There was nothing he could _do_ to help – all he could do was sit at Godric's Hollow – or go out on the occasional minor mission. But as for getting Hermione back – well, he couldn't do anything at all and it was driving him up the bloody wall. Remus wouldn't let him go to the locations they were visiting to look for Hermione – it was too dangerous, too risky, and with the horcruxes nearly all destroyed, and as their chances of achieving a final showdown with Voldemort grew, keeping Harry alive was more important than ever. "I want to get her _back! _If she hates me for risking the war, I'll bloody well deal with it then. But right now –"

"Harry. I know how you feel, but we _can't_ risk the war. You _know _that." Remus was gentle with the truth, but Harry's breath escaped him in a plosive sound, and he jerked his pacing to a halt, flopping down onto the couch and burying his head in his hands. _Ron_ got to be out there with the three Aurors who were searching for Hermione, lucky bastard, while Harry was trapped _here_. It wasn't bloody fair. This was one of the very few times in Harry's life that he had been resentful of Ron, and he didn't like the feeling.

"Christ." He buried his face into his hands and growled into them. "Yes, I know that. I know it, Remus. I just…"

"I know. I understand, Harry."

"And here I am yelling my head off at you when…"

"It's fine, Harry, really." Remus reached out and patted Harry on the knee and gave him a small, reassuring smile.

"At least she's with Malfoy,' Harry said for the twelfth time that week, followed by his twelfth, "Jesus Christ I can't believe I'm saying that." He laughed weakly and shook his head, glancing up at Remus and pushing his glasses back up his nose. "But he'll – he really has changed, hasn't he? He won't…sell her out? Switch sides again…to save his own bloody skin?"

Harry had been having nightmares since her capture, where Hermione was across a Muggle football field from Harry, screaming for him to help her, while Malfoy pointed a wand at her head. And Harry didn't have his wand, so he had to run towards her, but every time he took that first step towards her and Malfoy, the blonde spat, "_Avada kedavra_," and Hermione's eyes went _dead_, _blank_, and she fell. The last few nights Harry had been aware enough that it was a dream to refuse to take that first step, but then it seemed like he'd been standing there forever, and he couldn't _wake up_, and he was _trapped_, and in the end he took that step out of desperation, and she _fell_. It was bloody screwing with his head.

Harry knew that the other side weren't likely to kill Hermione at least – she was too valuable a bargaining chip. He sighed and scratched at the dark stubble that itched his face, feeling impossibly weary.

"He's changed, Harry. You know that," Remus said, also for the twelfth time that week, and Harry nodded to himself, smiled a distracted apology at Remus. "I'm…I'm going to go find Ginny. Sorry that I…"

"It's _fine_," Remus said, with a wry, slightly impatient but sympathetic smile, and then turned his eyes back to the decoded messages he had been reading through when Harry had burst in.

**# # # # # #**

Draco hung limply in the chains, head lolling heavy, naked limbs spasming with the aftershocks of the _Cruciatus_ firing through his nerves, a searing agonising echo of the curse itself. They had gotten sick of just…using him…lately. He'd stopped reacting, stopped _caring_; just lay there like a hunk of meat, a dead body, and went _somewhere else_, and that wasn't _fun _for them so they had to find another way to make him scream. And they did. They always found a way to make him scream, in the end, and the screams rattled and echoed off the walls like an animal's howls, shapeless and wordless and without thought. Just _pain_.

And _then _they would use him, once they'd had their fun making him scream, because it got the sick bastards going to torture someone, and then of course they wanted to _relieve _themselves. And he would shut his eyes and think of Hermione and that at least it wasn't her. He was so fucking grateful that it was just him, not her. In a way, he _was_ protecting her, by being taken instead. Or so he told himself as he tried to pretend he was somewhere else, hanging in his chains as they cut him.

He was whizzing through low cloud on his broomstick, the wind chilling his cheeks and nose and turning them red with cold, and the mist of the clouds damping him. He was listening to his mother tell him a story about the one of the constellations, while he stared out his bedroom window at the points of light, the covers all tucked up to his chin and a warm, lazy drowsiness suffusing him as he tried to stay awake and listen to the end of the tale. Or he was sitting playing a game of Scrabble with Hermione, irritating her by using what she sharply referred to as, _**illegal**__ words and rude, to boot_, and laughing at her annoyance_. _

He never thought about anything sexual, no matter how strong those memories of twining himself with Hermione's naked body were. That would have been worse than wrong – it would have been utterly _abhorrent_.

Sometimes Draco lay there and he hated her so much if she had been standing there above him, he would have tried to kill her. He was glad that she had been saved from suffering through this, and yet he _hated_ her because of that very fact. He was _pathetically_ grateful it was him and not her, and he yet despised her for it too. Draco knew intellectually that he would rather it was this way – just him rather than both of them, or only her – but he couldn't help the creeping resentment and jealousy and hate that _she_ was spared, and _he_ was not. And then she was there, afterwards, trying to be everything that he needed, all twisted up and hurting for him, and he loved her again.

And sometimes he woke up at night, shivering and crying silently, nightmares cold in his mind, and a sick horror thick in his throat and rolling in his gut. Draco thought he could have brushed them off easier, except he also woke painfully aroused, with his cock as hard as iron, throbbing and _hurting_ he was so fucking hard, and so _angry_ and sick over everything. And he would listen to Hermione breath, and want nothing more than to grab her and pin her down, and bite her and pinch her and lick her and _fuck_ her 'til she was screaming with it. The part that really frightened him, and made him lie there awake desperately _not_ touching his cock, was that he wanted her to scream because he was hurting her, and in that, punishing himself. And he didn't know what the hell he was supposed to feel about _that_ shit.

He blinked with swollen eyes as they undid the chains he hung from now, and let him crumple to a heap on the cold stone, shuddering and bleeding. And then Rostan dragged Draco up onto his knees in front of him by a handful of hair, leering down at him expectantly, and Draco opened his mouth obediently and tried very, very hard to go some place else.

**# # # # # #**

"Eat. Please. You need to keep your strength up," she tried to coax him, holding up a spoonful of the watery stew they got every day to share between them, and Draco sighed and let his head fall back against the wall. Rostan had been gone somewhere for four days now, and he was coming out of himself a little again, his emotions creeping through – although mostly it was just anger, it was still healthier than that dead look he'd had. The other Death Eaters had still taken just him away by himself the day before yesterday – and Hermione knew what that meant – but it couldn't be as bad as with Rostan, because he seemed marginally better. Hermione hadn't asked – they hadn't spoken of any of it at all, actually, but she thought that Rostan had hurt him like this before, before he had defected. There was something there between Draco and Rostan – a _history_ – that made it personal, and so much worse.

"If I eat, I'm just going to throw it up again, Hermione. There's no point. You might as well have it. At least you can keep it down," he pointed out wearily, and Hermione bit her lip, at her wit's end. He was right about throwing it up – he'd been nauseous ever since the first time Rostan had…taken him away, and most days he could barely get down and keep down more than a couple of spoonfuls of the stew. It worried her. The Death Eaters fed them both potions after every torture session to replenish their blood and give them nutrition and that sort of thing, but it wasn't the same as _eating_ – he still needed to _eat_. He was so thin she could count every one of his ribs starkly.

"You have to try. Come on, _please_, Draco?"

"Stop _fucking_ asking me, Hermione," he snapped, and she jerked the spoon back in fright and spilt the spoonful of stew on her lap, and swore at herself, tears welling in her eyes at her clumsiness and his angriness and – and _everything._

"Sorry. _Sorry_," she spilled out in a tight voice and jerked in a shaky breath, staring at the bowl and watching it waver and blur through the tears swimming in her vision. Draco shoved his hand through his hair, movements vicious and sharp with his anger even as he apologised. "No. I'm sorry. I just…"

"Yeah…" She looked away awkwardly.

Half the sentences they exchanged during the day ended unfinished, trailed away into nothingness and meaninglessness. What was there to talk about? What was there that was _safe_ to talk about, and didn't make everything worse? And apart from when Draco curled into her to cry _afterwards_, or when they slept – face to face on their sides, their knees drawn up a little so their kneecaps knocked together – he didn't touch her anymore, and she hadn't tried to touch him except for soothing strokes during nightmares, or when he was crying afterwards. Those comforting, cautious, and well-telegraphed touches seemed to be all right, but anything else…a tight hug, a kiss on the cheek, and unexpected stroke of arm or back – Hermione didn't know if that sort of touch would trigger…memories. The one time she had kissed his cheek, when they'd woken one morning, he'd _flinched _back from her like she'd struck him.

She hadn't tried it again.

Sometimes Hermione woke in the night after a nightmare to find herself crying, and Draco awake, leaning over her and murmuring useless sweet comfort in her ear, his fingers whispering over her face, and his lips pressing light, dry touches to her cheek, and temple, and ear. She would lie very still during those times, like he was a wild animal she didn't want to startle away, but he could tell the change in her breathing or _something_ because he always stopped a bare moment after Hermione woke. And she began wanting to just grab him and kiss him on the mouth, but she had the feeling he'd hit her on instinct if she did that, and she wouldn't blame him for it either.

There was just so little to find sanity in right now, here, in this cell, and trying to find some comfort in _Draco_ was one of the things that kept her going – those few limited gentle touches she was allowed kept Hermione from going utterly to pieces, but being unable to just grab him and bury her face in his neck and cling to him like a limpet made her feel so _alone_. But at least there was always the comforting outline of the coin Snape had gave her in her pocket, and that constant small hope that it would all be over soon, if they could just hold on. She wished she could tell Draco, but she kept her mouth shut. Snape had told her not to, and if she was going to trust him, then she thought she should trust him completely and follow his instructions to the letter.

She stirred the stew idly, mind elsewhere, roaming around and flitting from one thing to another – her concentration had been shot in the past week, and she felt light-headed and confused half the time now. She wondered if she _should _ask him about – Merlin, she couldn't even say the word, let alone think it, and so she just _ignored_ it and held him when he cried silently and tried to pretend it wasn't happening. She wondered if that was the wrong thing to do. That first time, he hadn't wanted to talk, but maybe it was because of her reaction – she let her hair fall over her face to hide her flush of shame as she remembered vomiting into the bucket. Maybe he had thought that she was disgusted by him.

"Draco…?"

"Hmm?"

"I – would it help if – I mean, I know the, ah, the first time you said you didn't want to talk, and I understand if you still don't…but…I'm willing to listen, if – well – doyouwanttotalkaboutit?" She was flaming red but she _forced_ herself to meet his eyes, and she had to stop a gasp of relief escaping her when _he_ looked away a second later.

"There's nothing to talk about," he said flatly, and she frowned at his tone, peeking up at him from her resumed study of the stew bowl.

"You – you remember what you said to me, before, when we thought I…" Hermione flashed back over that conversation they'd had and then suddenly realised then that she hadn't said _I love you_ in _days_. With the torture, and the silence, and the terrible, draining despair of _everything_, she hadn't said it at all, and what must that make him _think_ with what they were doing to him? That she didn't want him anymore? That he was…dirty? But she didn't think now wasn't the right moment to say it – it would just seem forced and obligatory and he wouldn't believe her.

"You said that it didn't say anything about _me_, or my worth, but _theirs_," she forged onwards determinedly, and Draco hissed a breath and rolled his head on the wall, tipping it away from hers. "I don't need your idea of a fucking pep talk, to _cheer me up_, Hermione. I _really_ fucking _don't_."

"It doesn't change anything; you know that, don't you?"

"Yes it does!" He snapped his head back around and his eyes were narrow and furious on hers, the grey all darkened to the colour of dark smoke and storm clouds. "It changes _everything_."

"Drac–"

"You can't fucking tell me you don't look at me and see it! You can't tell me that you don't think about –"

"I don't – I don't – I mean…" She flailed for the words, trying to explain. "It doesn't change how I feel about y –"

"Bull. Fucking. Shit, it doesn't," Draco snarled, spitting the syllables out crisply and furiously, and shoved himself backwards from her like she repelled him, eyes still glaring into hers.

"It _doesn't!_" Hermione cried in frustration, dropping the spoon in the stew with a clatter and throwing her hands in the air with frustration. And then her eyes went to slits on him as she _realised_ his damned double standards, and she jabbed a finger towards him and was too angry to notice when he flinched back from the gesture. "What, so would you have been _lying_, if it had been me? Because _you said_ that to m–"

"_If_ I'd said that," he bit out, "And I _didn't_, _by the way, _then _yes _I would have been lying. It wouldn't change the fact that _I love you_, which is what I said to you, if you'll recall. And it wouldn't have – have change your damn _worth_. But fuck _yes_ it would have changed how I looked at you, how I felt about you. Of _course _it would, and you're _lying_ to yourself as well as me if you're trying to say that those _bastards _fucking turning me into their personal fucking _sex slave_ doesn't change the way you feel abou–"

"I _meant_ that it hasn't made me think anything _bad_, not anything that _matters _– I love you, and them…hurting –" she stumbled over saying it and shied away at the last moment, the words _sex slave_ and the bitterness with which he'd said them burning into her brain and turning it into horrified mush. Draco twisted around and reared up onto his knees, so one of them slotted between her outstretched legs, snapped forward like a snake striking, his weight falling on his hand, his nose almost pressing against hers.

"Say it," he hissed, cutting her off. "Fucking _say it._"

"Draco, no – I can't – I do –"

"_Say it_," he snarled insistently, "If you want to _fucking _talk about it, then _talk about it, _Hermione."

"I…"

"Say the fucking _word_, _Hermione, _or shut the _fuck _up you hypocritical _bitch_." He was looming threateningly a scant inch from her, his mouth twisted into a snarl, and Hermione instinctively splayed her hand out and pushed him back from her, palm slamming against his chest hard, knee jerking up into his thigh. He froze for a second and she saw his eyes change, and then he lashed his hand out so _fast_ and clamped it hard around her throat, her back shoved against the wall and she couldn't _breathe _properly because he was _squeezing_ and from the look of his eyes, he was somewhere else entirely, and Hermione sucked in a painful breath and gasped, "Draco – god – sorry…didn't – 's me – 's _me –_"

Draco blinked, focused on her, grey eyes sharpening but still not _right_, but he stopped squeezing any _harder _at least, and then his mouth latched onto the slight jut of her cheekbone, and he bit her, _hard_. Hermione yelped at the sharp pain and the fright of it, certain he'd broken the skin and _scared _again, and her mind jabbered at her frantically because _what the hell was that? He'd just __**bitten**__ her, what the __**hell**__ was that? _

And then his tongue soothed hot and slick over the skin and his hand slipped away, and he slumped down against her, face buried into her neck, breathing hard. Hermione sat there frozen utterly, rigid against the wall, afraid to move in case she set him off again – and then spots were dancing in front of her eyes and she had to _breathe,_ and Draco jolted when she did. His hand went up to her hair, twining his fingers securely through it, making a fist around the tangled handful he had.

"Don't move," he said roughly, desperately, still breathing hard and panicked into her neck. "Don't fucking _move_, you _bitch_."

His maimed arm snapped up around her waist, pinning her between him and the wall, him on his knees between her legs, slumped down against her like he was boneless, only he _radiated_ tension. She half-lifted her hands and then dropped them back to the floor by her sides, scared to touch him.

"Say it," he rasped again and it took Hermione a moment too long to realise what he meant and he bit her throat below her ear and she was _certain_ he drew blood this time, and tried to jerk away but he had her pinned and she was _trapped_.

"_Say it_." It was a demand, an order, and it was filled with so much rage that Hermione _cringed_ from it, and from him, her shoulder blades grinding into the wall as she tried to press herself back and sink into the stone, but his arm around her waist jerked her body up to his, naked skin on naked skin, and he felt shockingly hot.

"Say the fucking _word_, you fucking _cunt_," he grated, all dangerous threat and fury and the hairs rose on the back of her neck, and she sobbed a choking breath, adrenaline flooding her along with the fear.

"I love you," she said, voice all knotted up and hoarse. "I love you, and them raping you hasn't made a bit of difference to that, Draco."

Draco shuddered at the word, and his hand clutched at her hair, dragging at it painfully when she said it, his breath sobbed on her throat, and she hurried on, "The only thing that it's changed is that I'm _worried _about you. I'm _scared_ for you, and I'm _worried_ about you and I don't know what I'm supposed to do – what I _can_ do – to help, and I'm scared, and I feel so _alone,_ and I feel like I can't touch you, but then maybe I shouldn't want to because that's selfish, isn't it, to want you to touch me _like that _when they're r-r-raping you, and I just –"

"Shut up," he choked, still clinging to her, his lips brushing over her neck as he spoke, his arm like an iron bar around her, his fingers gentling a little on her hair and petting at it with quick, panicky movements. "Just fucking shut _up_ for a minute, Hermione, I need to – I need to – I –"

There was a barely controlled rage that seethed off him like an inferno, and it scared her, because she thought it was directed at _her_, and he wasn't exactly _stable_ at the moment, and Christ, what if he snapped because she didn't have her wand, and he was bigger than her, and stronger, and… "You're scaring me. Draco. You're _scaring _me."

He ignored her and she brought a shaking hand up, tentatively touched his side, the naked flesh warm and tense, and he bit her throat again as though in reaction, and she yelped because it _hurt_. She thumped his side with the heel of her hand, shoved at him. "_Draco!_"

He yanked her hair hard and _dragged_ until her bum slid out from the wall and her head was pulled to the side and jammed against the stone, exposing her throat _more, _and his mouth was still latched over her throat although he wasn't biting down anymore. He was hunched over her and she was sucking in frantic, terrified breaths until she felt light-headed from too much oxygen, shoving at him but he was utterly immovable like he was carved from _stone_. She thrashed beneath him, get her uninjured leg bent up and pushing at his side with her knee but he just hooked his thigh over her leg just above her knee, pressing it down, laying his shin over hers and trapping it.

"_Draco!_"

"Shut – the fuck _uppp_…" He half-whined it unevenly into her skin between drags for air, sounding like he was about to _snap_, and she clamped her lips shut, shivering against him.

"Fuck," he gasped, almost like he was talking to himself, but she _knew_ it was aimed at her, and the words spilled out in a ragged flood of rage.

"Fuck I _hate you_. _I hate you_. You fucking _bitch_." Draco jerked back, pulling her away from the wall with him, and then slamming her into it and Hermione's shoulders ground painfully into stone and her head knocked back into it, and she grunted as the breath drove out of her and pain rang through her skull like a bell. She slid under Draco slightly as his arm jerked convulsively around her waist, and he sank down on her thigh to keep her still, and she choked as she felt his erection press into her leg, and she instinctively flattened her leg harder against the ground, trying to keep away from it because she didn't even _know_ – _what_ – _anything_. And he just kept spitting the words out like each one was a lash to strike her with.

"I want to hurt you so _badly_. To fucking make you _hurt_, because it's not fair, it's not _fair_ that it's just me, and you don't have to _hurt _like that. I just want to –" She tried to shrink away from him and he growled at her, "I _said_ don't fucking _move_, Hermione," and shoved himself harder into her and his words trailed off into a dazed groan for a second as his cock rubbed hard against her thigh, and then he shook himself, gasped.

"I just want to _hurt you_ and _shit_ _shit __**shit**_ I should be _glad_ that it's just me because I _love you _I _do,_ I swear to fucking _Merlin _I love you but – but –" Draco paused to heave in a breath, the roughness of his almost-beard scratching over her skin as he nuzzled his face harder into her throat and nipped a different spot – not to titillate but to hurt again and Hermione jerked and her hands fluttered like frightened birds by his sides, afraid to touch him and make it even worse.

"They don't touch you like _that_, they don't fucking touch _you_, and you _see it_ you _see me_ when they bring me back and I'm covered with – with – _everything _– and they've – and I can't walk I can't fucking _sit _and you _know_ what they're making me _do_ and I can't – can't –you look at me and you fucking _know_ what they _do _to me what they _do _and I can't _stop_ them fuck there's nothing I can do when I _fight_ they just hurt me until I can't fight anymore and then they do it anyway so now I just _let them_, I just _let them fucking do it I just get down on my_ _fucking knees and open my fucking mouth for them and you know what I let them do–_" He was _screaming _it into her skin now, and his hand had gone from her hair to her shoulder, ragged nails digging into her bare flesh and she could feel the blood starting to trickle down her back, and tried to bite back the pain of it, as his words crashed into her, crushing her beneath their weight.

"_Draco._" His whole body was so _tense_ it felt like he was going to fly apart like a coiled spring released, and he was shaking against her, and Hermione bit her lip and lifted her hands, put them on his back.

"Draco." And he flinched and his tirade of words just _stopped_, he just gulped them down and made a hiccuping sobbing sound and his breath rattled out hard as the tension just went _out_ of him and he _sank_ against her limply, gasping as hard into her neck as roughly if he'd just shagged her senseless. Hermione pressed her fingertips into his back hard, staring numbly at the sweat-dampened spikes of his white-blonde hair and the sharp bumped ridge of his spine, the jut of his shoulder blades beneath the skin of his back as he slumped limply against her, and she just _breathed._

"Shit," he said with rigidly tight control to his tone, after a long, heavy silence, and even though he sounded like he was still on a knife's edge of sanity, he also sounded more normal than he had in over a week. Embarrassed. Stunned. Half-afraid. Guilty. "_Shit_, Hermione, I –"

Hermione curled her arms tighter around his back and buried her face down, so her mouth was at his ear and his hair tickled her skin. She wanted to say something, but she didn't know what the _hell_ to say after whatever that – whatever _that_ had been. She was trembling all over still, and their skin was sweaty and slipped slickly together when Draco shifted a little – erection still there, she noted nervously, not sure _why_ he was hard or what he wanted to do with it, if anything. Merlin.

"Fuck. _Fuck_ you're _bleeding_, Hermione."

"You bit me," Hermione said dazedly, and when Draco pulled his head back from her she saw a smear of her blood on his lower lip, and when she lifted her hand to her neck her fingers came away reddened with traces of blood. Their eyes locked and she dragged her thumb over his lip to clean it, and he blinked at her owlishly, as dazed as she was. Still hard though – his cock prodding against her knee accidentally and aimlessly as he reached up and touched her bleeding shoulder gingerly.

"Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't…I just lost it. I fucking _lost_ it. _Fuck._" Draco sounded furious with himself, and half-frightened.

"Jesus," she breathed and slumped down as she saw the horrified apology on his face, his eyes clear and his hand hovering over her shoulder – the fear fell away from her then. He wasn't going to hurt her right now. He wasn't. Thank _god. _Her head fell forward and knocked onto his shoulder, and her hands came up and hooked into his upper arms as she went weak with relief. "Merlin, you scared me, Draco. I thought you were…"

"Were _what?_" Guilt and fear in his sharp question, and she shrugged, hands petting down over his arms now, no fear about touching him because damnit he couldn't complain about her touching him after what he'd just done to her. She huffed out a half-laugh. "Going to kill me or – or, um, trytofuckme," Hermione said, the words slurring together in her embarrassment and she blushed and was glad he couldn't see her face.

"_What?_"

"You're…" She shifted her knee and it rubbed over his cock and he sucked in a sharp breath and pulled back from her slightly. "_Oh._ I didn't know – I wasn't exactly – I didn't mean you to… _Shit._" He broke off, flushing hot over his cheeks and started to move away from her and she dug her fingers into his arms again and jerked him back down.

"Don't. Please?" She lifted her face to his, begging him with her eyes, because if anything she needed to touch him _now_ more than ever. To reassure herself that…he wasn't utterly mad or something. She still wasn't really sure. "If it's…okay…I just want to…touch you. Maybe. I guess." Merlin, she sounded stupid.

But Draco's hand came up and shoved light but firm up over her cheek, fingers driving into her hair, and he nodded, twisted to the side and sat down against the wall, pulling her with him and settling her on his lap, his arms almost too-hard around her and his erection – yup, still there and hard as ever, she thought nervously – digging against her thigh. She slid her hands up onto his arms, and felt goosebumps rise on his skin.

"I'm sorry," she said lamely after a moment. "For everything that you're going thr–"

Draco hissed with clear annoyance. "Now is _not_ the best time for that, Hermione."

"Why…?" she started to ask, because she just _always_ had to stick her nose in, and he made a harsh sound in the back of his throat.

"Because all that shit I was saying – I still _feel_ that," he grated unwillingly. "It hasn't just handily disappeared because I expressed it or whatever happy shit you think happens when people share their feelings. I lost control. I shouldn't have. Now I've got it back again, and I'm so fucking _sorry_ I scared you and…hurt you, but…"

"But you still _want_ to?" she asked very quietly, feeling small and confused, and something extremely inappropriate was roiling and coiling in the bottom of her belly at the steel and _need_ in his tone. She looked up and saw his jaw clench and spasm, and his eyes flicked down to hers.

"_Yes_," he said from between gritted teeth, as if he was daring her to be revolted. No. That wasn't quite right, she thought – it was as if he was _daring_ her to _let him_. She was mad. She was completely insane. The hunger and exhaustion and torture had driven her around the bend.

"Do it then," she said, challenging him to it, and Draco let out an almost _painful_ groan and then his hand was in her hair and his mouth was on hers, and Hermione had discovered he'd _meant_ it when he'd said he wanted to hurt her. His tongue shoved into her mouth without ceremony, hot and probing, and her stomach flipped deliciously disconcerting. His narrowed eyes were locked to hers when he sucked her bottom lip between his two and swept his tongue over it, and her belly cramped and squirmed with an almost painful want. And then Draco bit her lip hard enough to bruise, and when she flinched and made a high-pitched sound of shock and pain he moaned into her mouth and kissed her harder as if it got him off.

Hermione wondered for a frightened second, what she and her big mouth had gotten her in for. His hand yanked at fistfuls of her hair and tears jumped to her eyes, and she could feel the bones of his arms and chest as she searched over him with greedy hands because it had been so _long_ since she'd been able to touch him like this, the lean muscles rippling under the skin – no fat left to him now at all, just skin and spare, wiry muscle and hard bone. He pressed his mouth to hers so their teeth clashed, tongue flicking over the edges of her teeth and curling up to brush against the roof of her mouth, and she was making shocked, wanting sounds and pressing herself full against him, all racked with throbs and cramps of hot, needy lust.

She returned the favour of his probing tongue after a long, heated moment, hers slipping between his parted lips as if she was fucking his mouth, and his breath snorted out his nose, warm on her lips and cheek, and he bit her tongue and she _yelped_, a formless sharp cry and ripped back from him, going up on her knees, ignoring the pain in her ankle. She gasped and stared down at him, panting for breath and feeling out of control and helpless in an entirely different way than she had since they were captured. His hand came up and stroked down the curve of her face, pushing her hair back off it, and they stared at each other for a second, her hand clamped over her mouth and she was _sure_ her tongue was bleeding.

He was flushed – forehead, cheeks, neck, the blush spreading down his chest, which rose and fell hard on his breaths, thin stomach caving on each inhale. His eyes were hooded and glittered silver in the dim light, and his chapped lips were damp now, swollen and reddened from their kissing, and his hair fell over his forehead, all dirty and messy. Hermione gulped, a sudden bundle of nerves again – between the bite marks and bruises and other fresh scars on his thin body, the dishevelled, dirty state of him, and the blonde scruff that was almost a beard, he looked like a stranger. Like a very dangerous, very sexy stranger.

And then Draco must have tired of her absorbed, wide-eyed staring, because he made a rough little noise in the back of his throat and surged up to clasp Hermione's wrist and rip her hand down from her mouth, claiming it, his fingers letting her wrist go and curling down against her crotch and rubbing a single stroke _hard_ over her. Even through her chausses it was enough to make her go _hot_ all over like her skin had caught fire and her hips thrust out into his hand shamelessly without her even deciding to it – just operating on breathless, wanting instinct. Grinding herself into his hand and kissing along his jaw and chin messy and sloppy, prickles stabbing and scratching at her mouth and cheeks and it was the _strangest _feeling.

Draco was impatient though, and moments later he flipped them, and she landed with her back on the rags and him on top of her almost before she knew it – there was a brief searing, grinding pain in her ankle as he twisted her roughly and her foot caught on the rags, and then he was on his elbows above her, his mouth latched around one of her nipples, his hand awkwardly pinching and tugging at the other one. Her back arched up and she moaned and mewled and then he seized her whole breast in his hand and _squeezed_ and the cramping pain made her cry out and hit at him automatically, catching him on the shoulder.

He growled at that and bit her stomach, her side, her breasts; everywhere, like he was lost in his head, like he was an animal, like he wanted to cover every bit of her in marks of _him_. And Hermione didn't _hate_ it, because he wasn't biting _that _hard, and the frantic little growling noise he was making made her womb clench deliciously – but she knew perfectly damn well that every time he came back from…with Rostan…he was covered with vicious bite marks, and she wasn't sure how she felt about him re-enacting _that_ with her. With her in the role of the prey, and he the predator; like he was taking it out on her. Using her as a proxy, almost, but not quite, and she wasn't sure if it was healthy, or a bad thing. She did know it made her stomach feel horrible and confused, all mixed up with the pleasure and unease tangled in a knot that she couldn't get undone. But maybe it could help him exorcise his rage and helplessness – maybe. Either way, Draco seemed to want this – to need this, and that was enough for her.

Her hands slid up over his shoulders and she cupped his face, the roughness of his thick stubble making him _feel_ alien, unfamiliar. But those grey eyes were always the same, couldn't belong to anyone but Draco Malfoy, and when his hand drove down beneath Hermione's chausses and pinched her clit too-hard she moaned with pain and pleasure, and her teeth closed over his prickly jaw – biting him back. He whimpered, a strangely vulnerable sound, and his hand froze down her knickers and he went stiff all over and she berated herself furiously for _doing that. _And then he sucked in a breath and ducked his head and nibbled at her throat, interspersing lighter bites with deeper ones that made her body jerk and her teeth clench in the effort to keep herself from instinctively fighting him again.

It was strangely chaotic and painful but _good_, and their breath mingled on the air, rough and gasping rasps as she dragged her nails down his back while he teased gently with his tongue at her nipple, while his hand roamed her side _pinching_, and it felt hard enough to bruise – certainly hard enough to make tears spring up and her flinch away. Point and counterpoint, and she let herself take out all her anger and fear on him, in the end, and he didn't seem to mind, although at first she'd been afraid it would remind him. But he groaned with half-afraid pleasure when she bit his throat, and hissed sharply when she raked her nails down his back, and thrust uselessly against her through their chausses making a low growling, mewling noise when she plucked hard at his nipples.

"_Now. Now,_" he demanded hoarsely, lifting his head from her neck, his eyes gleaming at her in the half light, and Hermione squirmed under him, shoving her chausses down and managing to kick them off until they hug around one ankle, while he unlaced his with urgent fingers, eyes still gleaming on hers, his lips parted as he panted, breath hot on her throat and jaw. And then he sank into her, and she _saw_ his pupils dilate as he shuddered out a low, strangled sound, and then he dropped his head and shut his eyes, and _fucked_ her. Hermione's legs came up, the one with the broken ankle just drawn up to her chest a little, and the other hooking around his waist, and Draco drove into her brutally, rocking them back on the rags with each thrust until she had to reach up behind her and flatten her hand against the wall to stop her head from knocking into it.

"Oh _fuuuck_," Draco gasped, just moments later and buried himself even deeper with a snap of his hips, "_H-H'mione._"

And then it was over, and she was soaked in sweat – as was he – and she _hurt_ inside a little bit because it had been a while and he hadn't been gentle, and she hadn't gotten to…_finish_…herself, and her ankle flaming with irritated pain. But there was no time to dwell on all that, because Draco was gripping her in the vice of his arms and muttering half-angry, half-grateful nonsense in her ear, interspersed with a slew of foul language and she could feel his tears dripping on her neck and stinging the bite marks, and she couldn't think about anything but him, and making sure he was all right again. And he wasn't, of course he wasn't, but he seemed a little better, _maybe_.

And when they lay down together, he held her spooned against him – instead of facing her in the more distant nose-to-nose position – and that gave her a little hope that maybe he could get through this. And if he could, then _she_ could. She only had to hold out a little longer – just a little longer, and then they would be free.

It wasn't until Draco had fallen asleep, and Hermione was drifting off herself, that she realised with a lurch of fear that she wasn't covered by her contraceptive pills anymore.

**# # # # # #**

**Author's Note: **I debated a lot over whether to include the smut or not, considering Draco's situation and what he's going through, but in the end, his reaction to the trauma is one that some sexual assault and rape survivors do actually have. And it just seemed _right_ there. So I hope you enjoyed it!

::scuffs toe in dirt:: Ummm, plus I actually thought it was quite hot, but maybe that's just twisted ol' me being weird…

Please let me know if you liked it! I adore your reviews so much :)

The next chapter should be _the escape_, so take heart, those of you who find the capture just a bit much to handle :D


	6. Fight It Off

**Author's Note: **And another speedy update! Thanks for all the reviews, everyone, I'm _loving _hearing from you so, so much! I'm still not quite sure about how this chapter turned out – I do like it, and I think the development in it was necessary, but I dunno…it's not what I expected it would be, at any rate, so I hope you like it!

**Trigger Warnings: Torture, violence, allusions to rape and sexual assault, self-harm. **Although honestly, I don't think it's as graphic as the trigger warnings make it sound, so those of you with weak stomachs shouldn't have _too _much to worry about :)

**# # # # # #**

_**3. Fight It Off**_

_I'll hold your hand when you are feeling mad at me_

_Yeah when the monsters they won't go and your windows won't close_

_I'll pretend to see what you see_

…

_I know if you could snap both your fingers that you'd escape with me_

_But in the meantime, I'll just wait here and listen to you when you speak…or scream_

_[Waste, Foster the People]_

**# # # # # #**

The days ticked by in a haze of dread and despair, and Hermione didn't know how to cope, so in the end she just started falling apart.

She couldn't eat, she forgot what she'd been saying or doing or _thinking_ right in the middle of it, she'd find herself sitting in the cell staring into space with Draco shaking her and calling her name and telling her she'd been like that for the past ten minutes or so. She was blanketed with livid scars, and she knew that the Healers could remove them if – _when_ – they got out of here, but they were on her right _now_ and she would sit there and trace them, counting them over and over. It bothered her that she couldn't count the ones she couldn't see that were on her back, but when she'd asked Draco – her eyes big and wild and her hands wringing together – he'd just looked at her like he was worried she was going to snap and stab him in the throat or something.

It wasn't fair. She'd let _him _fall apart on her and scare her half to death, and she couldn't even ask him to count her scars without him looking at her like she was mad? She'd yelled at him it wasn't fair, all petulant and trembly and shrill, and his eyes had pierced straight through her, and his voice had been rough and low when he'd answered her. "No, Hermione. I'm not doing that. _No._" He'd looked at her as if she was a child having a tantrum and being hateful to him, who he was nevertheless immeasurably fond of. Like she'd hurt him by asking, but he _understood_. And when she'd thrown a balled up blanket at his head he'd just caught it in his hand and given her a carefully measured look that had made her sink back down into nervous silence.

She didn't even know what was _normal _anymore, because at the time it had seemed perfectly _natural _to want to count her scars, but now, after his reaction, she was worried it was just too strange.

The Death Eaters still took them every day, although the time of day varied, and it was almost a sick _relief _when the booted steps came to a halt outside their cell door because at least then Hermione stopped _waiting _for it and _expecting _it with dread a tight ball in her stomach. She couldn't hold out long under the torture now – they'd broken her down too much, and her resistance was pitiful – and sometimes she ended up begging them to stop, repeating the horrible things they told her to say, their hands skating roughly over her body, pinching and prodding and groping. Not _violating _her _properly_ as she thought of it in her head, because Snape had said not to and they followed his orders reluctantly, but really, how much of a difference was there, when their hands were on her rough and hard?

She felt dirty and filthy – a dirty filthy mudblood – and she really, really thought she was starting to go mad. She picked up the habit of yanking her hair out, one strand at a time, while Draco watched her with dulled, worried eyes. She started vomiting in the bucket when she _did_ manage to eat, and in a matter of days the weight began to fall off her. Her ankle was healing funny, and she knew it would need to be broken and re-set when – _if_ – they got out. She was scared that they wouldn't, and Snape had just been _lying _and it was all just a mind game, and that he was going to take her away and turn her into his toy and Voldemort was going to kill Draco. And she thought about that and ended up hyperventilating while Draco rubbed her back absently.

He was going just as screwy in the head as she was – more so, even. By turns he was withdrawn to the point of absolute catatonia, nearly normal but still worryingly _wrong_, or filled with an anger that she allowed him to take out on her, because at least then she felt something other than fear and despair.

It became a routine over the too-many too-long days that passed by before the day she was waiting for – the day Snape had said he'd take down the wards. Draco would be dragged back from _– _from_… being hurt _– she still didn't even like _thinking _the word, because _rape_ and _Draco_ shouldn't be in the same sentence – and he would throw up, hanging over the bucket on his knees with his eyes streaming, coughing and choking and _covered_ with their marks. And then he would roll to the ground and lie there, just staring at the ceiling and shaking all over with reaction for a while.

He would ignore her all evening. It was the time of day that he went almost catatonic. Once she'd gotten so frustrated with the way he'd completely ignored her shaking and repetitions of his name that she'd slapped him. Draco's cheek had blazed up red with her handprint, but all he'd done was blink and sway slightly at the force of the blow. She'd moved to do it again, and this time his hand had grabbed hers and _twisted _on her wrist until Hermione had felt like it was going to _break,_ before he'd shoved her hand back at her and released it sharply. She left him alone after that happened.

But then, once the lights in the hallway went out at midnight, Hermione would feel Draco's hand rough on her in the pitch black, and his hungry, greedy mouth. His fingers and his teeth and his lips and tongue, and he hurt her and made her feel good, and swore at her, and told her he hated her and he loved her in the same gasping breath. Like an exorcism, like an outlet, and in the end she gave in and returned the anger, giving as good as she got, and she wondered how in the _hell _they were supposed to ever regain their normality after _this. _After what they had learnt to do, what they had turned to in order to survive. Hurting each other and clinging and hating and yanking her hair out by the roots and counting her scars, and he scraping his Dark Mark over and over the knee of his chausses until it was rubbed so raw it bled, and picking at his bite marks so they never healed, and taking a fierce joyless pleasure in spitting his hate in her ear while his cock was buried in her… _Merlin._

Hermione felt like this was the first time she had really realised what war was, now, taken prisoner – _this_ was war; war against madness and breaking and ripping each other apart in their desperation to stay together and sane. And she thought that maybe they were failing.

After the sex, Draco always held her so tight it felt like her ribs were creaking under the pressure, and he cried in complete silence, the only evidence of his tears the hot wetness on her skin and the jerky shaking of his shoulders. Sometimes he told her he was sorry, once his tears had stopped, said the words in a dry hopeless voice, filled with guilt, and Hermione couldn't tell him anything but that it was all right, and that she loved him, and it was all going to be okay.

They told each other that a lot; that it would be all right. Draco never really believed it; she could hear it in the lifelessness of his voice, but Hermione would think of the coin in her pocket and sometimes – sometimes – she thought she did.

**# # # # # #**

Draco knew that she was keeping something from him. He saw the way she rubbed her thumb over her pocket when she thought he wasn't looking, as if there was something important in there, and he didn't miss the faint spark of hope that came into her eyes when she did so. He didn't ask her about it though. Draco didn't trust easily – never had – but this was _Hermione_ and he trusted her with his life, his sanity, and now, late at night he trusted her with his deepest darkest horrors as he drove himself into her willing body – so if she hadn't told him, he had to assume there was a reason for it. So he didn't ask her, no matter how much he wanted to. Whatever it was she had in her pocket – and he assumed it was some hope for escape from this fucking _hell_, he just hoped she didn't fuck it up.

And he hoped that whatever it was she had planned that she couldn't tell him about would happen _soon_. Because he wasn't sure how much longer he could spend being torn apart by torture and – and rape, and trying to put the pieces of himself back together, because he was starting to _forget_ where those pieces _went_, and eventually he wouldn't remember at all. He couldn't keep doing this. He was fraying apart and bits of him were drifting away, and he didn't know how to get them _back_. Sometimes it felt like all he knew anymore was _pain_; how to inflict it, and how to receive it, and there was just nothing else to him but a hollow shell holding all the pain inside of him as the pressure built and _built_ until he wanted to burst.

**# # # # # #**

The sky was dark with storm clouds that had split open half an hour ago, and the house, which blazed despite the soaking rain, gave off black, heavy smoke that choked the air. Ron hadn't bothered with a water-repelling spell, and his cloak clung to him like a second skin, his hair flattened dripping over his forehead, arm up over his mouth and nose as he looked for survivors on the muddy ground. His lips were flattened into a hard line as he only found dead bodies – they'd been outnumbered, and forced to fight to kill, even though they _needed _the information. Johns had gotten one alive, but the woman hadn't known _anything_. Well, she could fucking rot in Azkaban now, evil fucking _bitch._ She'd laughed at their frustration, laughed and _laughed_, and Ron had been hard pressed not to kill her right then.

He saw a body and hurried towards it, only to see the Death Eater was dead, rain and ashes coating the body with a greasy black muck, the man's entrails burst out from his belly. _Damnit_. Merlin _fucking_ damnit. They were running themselves fucking _ragged_ going from place to place, wherever they'd heard there were smaller groups of Death Eaters or courier points, trying to get some information that would lead them to Hermione and Malfoy, but they never got what they needed, and Ron was getting bloody _sick_ of it.

He kicked at the Death Eater's body furiously, getting a loop of shiny pink intestines over his boot and swore and kicked the corpse again. He was as red as his hair, he knew, because he felt like he was going to boil over like a damned fucking _pot_, and he was so angry he wanted to bring the Death Eater back to kill him all over again. The _bastards_. Every place they went, _every fucking place_, there was no Hermione, no Malfoy, and none of the Death Eaters had any information – even under _veritaserum _they didn't seem to know _anything_. He hissed and kicked out again, boot driving into the Death Eater's gaping mouth and crunching through teeth, the glazed, dead eyes staring blankly up at the sky as dust and ash got in them.

"Weasley." A dry female voice, tilted with that perpetual casual amusement that made him want to both laugh _and_ hex her at the same time these days. "Kicking dead bodies isn't going to help anyone you realise, least of all Hermione."

He turned on Truffle with a snarl, dropping his arm from his mouth and nose to jab his finger at her. "_Nothing's _fucking helping. They don't know _shit! _They _never_ bloody do. It's like – like she never even got captured but she _must_ have, we know they got captured – _you_ saw it." He snapped his glare to Johns, and the man held his ground – dark and spare and whip thin.

"Yeah, they had her, and Malfoy. The Death Eaters wouldn't have just _left _them there, and if they'd gotten away from the enemy – highly unlikely given Hermione was wandless and they were outnumbered – then they'd have returned by now. They have to be somewhere, Weasley. We'll find them."

"Yeah, but will we get there in _time?_" Ron clenched his fists convulsively, staring down at the corpse by his boots, disgust all over him.

"They aren't going to kill her – they aren't stupid. They'll see her usefulness," Johns said coolly, and Ron's hand jerked up, balled into a fist, and then dropped back to his side, fingers flexing as he buried the urge to hit Johns.

"Yeah, they won't kill her. What a bloody relief. They'll just be _torturing her_. What a _fucking_ _relief_." He sounded horribly bitter and not at all like himself, and his mouth twisted up, eyes narrowed against the rain and ash as he jerked back from Johns, Truffle and Sweetcress, boots making sucking sounds in the mud as he walked away, shoulders hunched to the rain.

**# # # # # #**

Draco reached for her in the dark, and instead of sliding towards him with that little puff of air from her lips – like a sigh, like a surrender – she drew back and her body stiffened. He growled at that. His cock was hot and hard, and his veins thrummed with hurt and anger, and his muscles quivered taut, and if he didn't get it all _out_, Draco felt like he was going to _explode_.

Just _snap_ and choke Hermione to death and then beat his head against the stone wall of the cell until he caved his skull in, or something else suitably insane and bloody. He found the ball of her shoulder and latched his teeth over it, nipped at her just hard enough to hurt a little, but feel _good_ too. Testing her, seeing if she'd _let_ him, and he felt filthy for it because he knew this wasn't right. Pushing her like this. He hissed and rolled onto his back when she just pulled further away and murmured a small, "No, Draco."

Draco stared up at the ceiling; somewhere lost above him in the total black of the cell, and scrubbed his palm hard over his face. His cock strained against his chausses, and Rostan had taken him to _play_ today, and… Draco's jaw clenched and he glared at the ceiling, sick and horrible and fucking _twisted up_. He was an arsehole, and he had no fucking _right_, but he asked it anyway, all rough and angry like she was the one doing something wrong instead of him.

"Why _not?_" It came out sounding more like _fuck you_, and he heard her shift on the rags next to him, but she said nothing at all. "Why fucking _not_, Hermione?"

He was an arsehole. He was an utter _bastard_. He shifted and his cock rubbed uncomfortably on his chausses and he growled and gave in to the unbearable urge – ripped his laces undone with quick rough fingers and fisted his hand around his cock, squeezing firmly and slamming his lips together to stop the groan caught in his throat from shivering out. Waited for her to answer him, his fingers still wrapped around his dick like a fucking _arsehole_.

"I – I just…" she started unsteadily, and then pulled in a harsh breath. "Actually, no, _fuck you!_ I don't owe you _anything!_ I don't _have _to let you use me as your punching bag, Draco!" There was a splinter and a ragged crack to Hermione's voice and he jerked up on his cock and felt the tendons in his neck stand out as he tried not to whimper.

"I haven't hit you _once_," he staggered out, head not working right, all filled up with blinding lust and anger and trying desperately not to sound like he was on the verge of full on wanking while they had what seemed to be about to bloom into an all out argument.

"That's not what I _meant_ and you _know_ it you enormous horrible _prat_. It was a metaphor and –"

"I _hate you_," he snarled, not sure if he meant it or not, his balled up hand sliding up and down his dick and _shititfeltsogood_ but not as good as _she_ would feel, not as satisfying as letting out the anger on her, and her returning it twofold. And then she sobbed and he felt her roll away from him, and he snarled and hated himself, sucking his lower lip into his mouth and breathing hard through his nose as he tried to relieve the ache and the want and _throb_ to cum with quick, hard strokes. He knew she must have heard him no matter how quiet he tried to be, because they were only half a foot apart and the room was silent so she _had_ to hear his gasping breaths. But she said nothing, just lay there all curled up in the dark and he _hated_ what the Death Eaters were doing to him. What they were turning him into.

His hand dropped away from his dick as the pleasure turned sour in his mouth, and rubbed his hand hard over his forehead, swearing under his breath. He couldn't even fucking wank to get rid of the urge, because it just seemed wrong with her lying there, obviously miserable and being forced to listen to him ignore her in order to selfishly chase his own brief, bitter pleasure. He ground his teeth together and his fingers sought out her arm, to squeeze it in apology, but ended up dragging over the side of her breast and she flipped like a fish on a line and her hands batted at him viciously. He snatched his hand back in shock as she thwacked at him, catching him hard over the ear, and the cheek, and the arm he flung up to protect himself.

"I said _no!_" she choked out, sounding like she was going to implode with her fury and hurt.

"I didn't mean to touch you there! I wasn't trying to –"

"_Sure_ you weren't, you pushy, _selfish, arsehole_. What's _wrong _with you, Draco?"

"I'm _sorry_, Hermione, I didn't mean to," he tried, sounding more twisted up with frustration at her disbelieving him than actually sorry for touching her there, although he _was, _and she growled and out of nowhere thumped at him blindly again. She smacked his shoulder and the side of his head with her forearm, about _this_ close to slamming him square in the face and Draco grunted in surprise and scrambled back from her like a crab, on his elbows and both feet.

"I'm _sick_ of you telling me you hate me," she half-yelled from the dark, and her fingers hooked over his thigh and then she was crawling up him and shoving him down to the floor, the stone shockingly cold on his naked back, her straddling his thighs, her hands balled into fists that dug down into his chest.

"I'm _sick_ of you using me like I'm just a _thing_. I've _tried_ to be patient I've _tried_ to understand but now it just feels like you're trying to do to me what they're doing to you and I just can't _take_ that today. Not _today_…" She ended in a trail of sobs, beating her fists into his chest bloody _hard _and he grabbed one of her wrists, stilled that hand and the other stopped hitting him a moment later too, and then she started crying weakly, slumping froward so her hair dragged and tickled over his chest.

Draco bit his lip, suddenly worried, because they'd established a _routine,_ that was admittedly nowhere near healthy or normal, but seemed to work to keep them half-sane, and now she'd deviated from it and he didn't know the reason _why _she had, but it had to be bad.

"What happened today?" he asked her tightly, heart racing a little now. He'd passed out before she had during the torture – the last thing he remembered seeing was her face opposite him, streaked with tears.

"Oh," she said in a dismissive, sobbing, pitiful half-laugh as if it wasn't really important despite the fact that she'd just tackled him and thumped him because of it. "Nothing…nothing terrible, compared to –what it could have been," she finished awkwardly, and Draco wondered if she had been going to say _compared to you_ and decided it wouldn't have mattered if she had_._

"Not really," she continued. "They just – _god_. They just…" She trailed off and he knew her well enough to know that she was waving her hand in the air aimlessly. "Said things to me. Pawed their _horrible, disgusting_ hands all over me."

Draco shut his eyes and unwillingly pictured the last time he'd seen them do that to her during the torture. Nothing…he felt _sick_…nothing _invasive,_ exactly, but their hands had been rough on her, and definitely fucking sexual and before he'd gotten too lost in his own pain, he'd been seeing red with helpless rage. He blinked, his impotent anger leaving him feel suddenly heavy and numb, his fingers curling hard into the stones beside him, scraping over them hard, nails catching on the uneven surface.

"Did they…?"

"My _honour_ is still _intact,_ if that's what you mean." The depth of her anger and bitterness astounded Draco, and he struggled up, her going with him on his lap, his chin brushing against her forehead as he twisted so that he leant against the wall.

"Shit, Hermione, I –" He didn't know what to say, and there was a long, horribly awkward silence before she scrambled off him, wincing to herself as she bumped a foot – her broken ankle probably – on his kneecap. "I just get so trapped in my head. In my…in what _I_ want, and…_fuck, _this place is screwing with my head. I can't even _think_ straight half the time, and then I get so angry and I just want _you _because you're all I have and I don't even _think_ about what you want I just…I'm _sorry._"

He was an arsehole. That was the only explanation, and it was a true one – Draco knew it. He thought back over the past few days in his mind and realised just how fucking _selfish_ he'd been. Because _she_ was going through horrible shit too – it wasn't just him. It was her as well, and he'd gotten dug so deep into his stupid damned self-pity and half-madness that he'd forgotten all about Hermione and what _she_ was going through. He was supposed to be protecting her, and instead he'd just ended up hurting her.

"I know. I know. It's messing with mine too." Her voice was quiet, coming from his right, and from the slightly muffled sound to her voice she was sitting with her back to him. He could picture her – too damn thin, all her bones sticking out, covered in livid scars and her hair a matted dark tangle falling down just past her shoulders. She huffed softly, sounding like she was choking down tears, and went on. "And I don't mind when we…when you…you know. Usually. Except that's the only way – the only _time_ – you've touched me in the past few days, and it feels like you…like you really do hate me. Or something." 

Draco gulped down the lump in his throat the wavering smallness of her voice created, and dragged his hand through his hair. "I don't hate you. You _know_ that, Hermione." He didn't know how things had gotten so twisted up. How they'd…but then that was the nature of the torture and captivity they were going through – its purpose. It pulled people all to bits and made them into something they hadn't been before, something else entirely; something broken and cowed and fuckedin the head. She was starting to mutter something, and he tried again, "I don't hate you, Hermione. And I'm sorry I –"

But she was mumbling disconnected incoherent things in a broken voice about _marriage_ and _was so happy_ and _how is it ever – ever going to be right again _and she wasn't listening to him, was lost in her thoughts of the future and the past, which Draco tried not to think about at all, because it only made everything seem that much worse. So he put his hand out in the dark and it landed on her back. Hermione jumped and her mumbling cut off, and he splayed his fingers flat, pressed gently into her skin like a signal to her to be still, and she was as he ran his hand over the raised, rough lines of scarring with a gentle touch.

"I'm sorry," he breathed, and the air felt heavy and his bones felt hot and _full_ beneath his skin somehow.

"I want to go home…" she sobbed, and her shoulders were shaking. "I just want to go _home_ and for everything to be _okay _again."

He scooted closer to her, sitting sideways to her, his hand sweeping up over her shoulder and his upper body twisted so he could press his lips lightly against her shoulder. She jerked like she expected the pain flare of a bite, and dully, filled with anger at himself, Draco supposed she that she _did_ expect it. Because that was all he'd given her. Receiving pain and inflicting it – it seemed like it was all he did anymore. He kissed the slope of her neck and shoulder, feeling soft skin and the ridged edge of a scar, and Hermione let out a shuddering sound, still crying quietly.

"I'm sorry. For…everything," Draco said, his lips barely brushing her skin as he spoke, meaning their situation, and his behaviour, and that she couldn't go home, and that everything couldn't be okay again. He felt like he was sinking, so _heavy_, and the anger that had consumed him just a short time ago had been banished by weariness and a horrible, crawling shame. She didn't say anything, shoulders still shaking jaggedly, and Draco brushed her hair out of the way, kissed the curve of her neck, swiping his tongue over her skin and tasting salt. Hermione shivered and made a little _mmm-_ingsound, and Draco's hand curved over the jut of her shoulder, clasping it firmly as he kissed and nibbled a very, very gentle path along her neck.

"I'm sorry too," she said breathily while his face was buried against her, tongue swirling in circles just behind her ear, and he hummed an acknowledgment and slid his hand up and down her upper arm in what he hoped was a comforting manner. "'S'all right," he mumbled, and then curled his arms around her, pulling her back against him, feeling all filled up and weighed down but light-headed at the same time, and she tasted like sweat and old blood, and he suddenly just wanted to crawl inside her skin, melt into her and lose himself in her.

There was a long, easy silence in which they shifted so Hermione was nestled between his legs, his back to the wall and her hands on his thighs, his arms around her. She leant her head back against his chest and shoulder, and Draco kissed her neck and throat and shoulder; stupidly trying to make up for all the ungentle touches and anger. She sighed, boneless and heavy as she leant back into him. Draco kept touching her with gentle, soothing motions, dropping tiny kisses on every patch of skin he could reach, and Hermione seemed to like it from the way her fingers kneaded his thighs like a contented cat's paws. And then, after a long while, her little kneading motions stopped.

"Hermione?" he whispered in her ear, and only slow, even breathing answered him, and Draco sank his face down against her neck and sighed, thinking about the future despite how he usually tried so hard not to think about it, and he wondered for what felt like the hundredth time, how the hell they were going to put themselves back together if they managed to get out of this alive.

**# # # # # #**

The cell door swung open, and from the time and the _lumos_, Hermione wasn't surprised when Snape stepped inside. Luckily, Draco was asleep, or Snape would have had to _stupefy _and _obliviate _him, and Hermione didn't want to be party to that extent of deception. Mucking with his mind when he trusted her – it made her think of what she'd done to her parents, and feel ill. She dragged a thin blanket up around her, tucking it under her arms and slipping away from Draco with a kiss to his temple. Snape was looking at her oddly as she limped towards his position at the door.

"What?" she asked almost rudely, her self-censors broken down to nearly nothing. Snape looked like he wanted to give her a disdainful sneer, but couldn't quite manage it.

"Plans have changed," he said after a brief pause, and she frowned because she'd meant why was he giving her a funny look, and also because plans changing was rarely good, in her experience.

"What do you mean?"

"The Dark Lord has been delayed. He may not return for another three weeks, and I am unwilling to attempt to bring down the wards before I absolutely need to." Hermione's blood ran cold at that, as she tried to process the reality of _three more weeks_ when the past fourteen days had seemed like a _year_. She blinked at him, horrified, blanket slipping a little and unnoticed.

"_Why?_" She sounded strangledand hoarse, and she spoke too loud because Draco muttered and stirred in his sleep and Snape eyed him suspiciously. Hermione followed the Snape's gaze and caught her lip between her teeth as she examined Draco's face. He was having a bad dream – he only got that wrinkle between his brows when he was uneasy in his sleep. She looked back up at Snape to find him watching her with that strange look again.

"You _love_ him, don't you Miss Granger?" he asked, the contempt in his voice easing very slightly, softened by intense bewilderment. Well, there was no reason to deny it to Snape, and Hermione was too fuddled, tired, and wrung out to lie convincingly anyway.

"Yes," she said shortly, feeling _very_ set off-balance by the ex-Potions teacher and his strange questions.

"A Slytherin and a Gryffindor," Snape mused under his breath, with a funny bitter twist to his mouth. "How ironic." And then louder, he said, "And that," he jerked his wand at Draco's Dark Mark, "Doesn't bother you, Miss Granger?"

"It does actually. A _lot_ of things about Draco bother me. And he tells me _all the time_ I bother the hell out of him. But I fail to see how that's relevant to why you're willing to leave us here to _rot_ for _three more weeks!_" She ended on a fierce snarl and poked a finger at him and the blanket slipped further and Snape averted his eyes, a flush of red appearing across his cheekbones before Hermione realised she was half exposed. It irritated the _fuck_ out of her that Snape was acting so prudishly offendedby the sight of her when he had actually _touched _her breast without her permission before, but she just huffed out an angry sound and hitched the blanket up again.

"Well?" she snapped in a harsh, demanding whisper, and Snape cleared his throat awkwardly, still acting utterly discombobulated by her nearly flashing him, and she wondered if he'd ever – and cut the thought off decidedly with an inward shudder. Merlin, she needed sleep before her she _really_ went mad.

"I have left notes that reveal the location of '_two packages_' at a number of Death Eater safehouses I have had reason to visit over the past week. I hope that in their hunt for you, the Order will come across one of them and realise what the note means. I can do very little else unless I would like to risk blowing my cover, which I would _not_. I'm already risking enough, Miss Granger. Hopefully, they will reach you before Voldemort's return, and my assistance will not be needed at all."

"_What if they __**don't – **__you – you __**bastard!**_" She was so furious she could claw his face off, thinking of her and Draco and three more weeks and her head spinning and spinning at the thought, like she had vertigo and her body didn't know what was up or down or sideways or… Snape took her elbow to steady her as she swayed and clutched at her head, clasping her arm between his finger and thumb like she repelled him, and sneering down at her.

"I didn't _have _to put my safety in jeopardy for you, Miss Granger. I _could_ have just let the rabble have you."

_Oooh_, she _hated_ him, the arrogant, greasy _bastard_. How _noble _of him, that he'd done the minimum he could do to prevent them from _raping _her as well as torturing her. Did he think that made him a good person?

"And why _didn't_ you just let them, then?" she asked, all churning fury and terror, because _three weeks_. _Merlin. _They'd never survive it.

"Because I saw an opportunity to communicate with Potter through you, and because I am…fond of Draco, and would rather not see him wounded any further if I could help it." There was a distant affection in Snape's voice, rather like that of an uncle for a favourite nephew, and she absurdly remembered how Draco always beat her in potions and she had always _known _it was because of favouritism and not skill.

"Three weeks is too long," she protested urgently as Snape turned on his heel.

"I apologise, but I will do it at the last possible moment and _no sooner_. Now excuse me, Miss Granger, I must be going."

"Snape, _please_. Don't you know what they're doing to him? What they're doing to _us?_ You can't just _leave us here. You can't just leave us!_" It took an immense effort not to _scream_ at him at the top of her lungs, the cords in her neck standing out and her face red as she hissed at him furiously. His thin lips flattened out further and his eyes shuttered over, a faint pity on his face but no mercy forthcoming.

"I do know, Miss Granger. But I have my reasons. It will be in three weeks exactly, unless circumstances change again." And then he nodded sharply and was gone in a billow of black robes, and Hermione was left choking on bitter, bitter tears, because three weeks was like a lifetime. It felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room in Snape's wake, and she gasped for air that wouldn't come. _Three weeks. Three weeks._

**# # # # # #**

"They set it alight! They _fucking _set it _ablaze_ the _bastards_," Ron raged, staring over at the shack that had once been a safe house for the Death Eaters. "_Again_. They're always just _one_ fucking step ahead of us!" He swore as the house in front of them burned just like the last three had, and kicked blindly at a tree in his anger. "They could have had information in there! Prisoner transport instructions, _anything_."

"I doubt it. They aren't going to discuss captives as important as Hermione and Malfoy on paper – they wouldn't want to risk we'd find the records of it," Truffle pointed out, and Ron kicked the tree again.

"Well, if they _did_ write it down, we _wouldn't_ have found it anyway, would we? Because the place has gone up like a ruddy _bonfire!_" he snarled and clenched his fists.

Stacks of burning papers darkened and curled on an old desk inside as the flames consumed them, one a slip of parchment tucked between two others, which read _'The two packages at Mintres must not be shifted before the Dark Lord's return'_ – a missivein unfamiliar handwriting that was completely unlike Snape's, and was never meant for any Death Eater.

**# # # # # #**

Hermione hung in the chains and cried and begged and pleaded with them, lost beyond all reason, promising them _anything_ if they'd only _stop_. Shame burned through her beneath the agony and the mindless desperation, because Draco was watching her with steady, wounded grey eyes, blood dripping from his nose and tracking down his thin, scarred chest, and she didn't want him to see her beg but she couldn't _stop_ herself.

**# # # # # #**

All the barriers were gone between Hermione and Draco now, as she counted down the final days until Snape would take down the anti-apparition wards. Nothing was sacred, nothing was taboo, and nothing was private. It was what kept them from sinking into selfishness and self-pity, what kept them from using each other, or retreating. She still wondered how on earth they would ever go back to normal, but now it was because they were twined so tight – had become so unhealthily interdependent – that she didn't know how they would function somewhere other than their eight foot by eight foot cell. The only time she was apart from him was when Rostan took him, and other than that they were always in contact, always touching, although they never really talked much.

Hermione was half-seriously worried that they'd get outside of the cell and she would just be overwhelmed by _everything_ – all the _freedom_ – and just want to spend the rest of her life locked in the cellar of Godric's Hollow with him. She curled up against his warm chest and tried to sleep, and his arm came down tight around her, snugging her even closer. She didn't think he'd object to the cellar idea, actually. She wondered idly how many years of therapy they would need before they stopped being half-mad.

Her mind wandered aimlessly, until, despite it being late afternoon or somewhere thereabouts, exhaustion dug its claws into her and drowned her under it. Hermione dreamed of ants and Voldemort and a giant bowl of icing that kept threatening to spill over, and she awoke crying in a frightened muddle from the nightmare which had been absurd and yet so _scary_, as footsteps thudded into their cell. She hadn't even got her eyes open yet when hands dragged Draco roughly up away from her, taking him and him alone, before either of them were even properly awake, and she curled into a ball and cried harder.

**# # # # # #**

"I don't think I even remember what a bed feels like. Or a shower. Or clean clothes," Hermione sighed, and Draco glanced up at her, her eyes looking dull and sunken, her tone dreamy as if she was half-lost in memory, or fantasy.

He dropped his eyes back to his concave abdomen, picking at scabbed over bite mark beside his bellybutton and making it bleed again. They'd just spent the past hour being _crucioed_, so the pain of opening old scabs didn't even really register, and it soothed him, somehow. He could feel Hermione looking at him funny, whenever he did it. Just like she looked at him funny when he spent hours shredding a bit of rag as small as he could get it, like he was trying to un-weave the cloth, or when he traced invisible runes onto the stones in front of him, or sat and stared and stared at the rectangle of flickering barred light that came in through the cell door's little window.

"When we get out of here, I'm taking a bubble bath and not getting out until I'm like a prune _all over_," she continued dreamily, and he made a neutral sort of grunt in response. He didn't like playing these sorts of games. She'd been unusually positive these last couple of days – a strange, strained, nervous sort of excited energy hanging about her – and she'd started talking about 'when we get out' and it made Draco uneasy, because she'd either gone mad from the strain and was living in a fantasy world, or she knew something he didn't, and he didn't like being kept in the dark. Draco thought it had something to do with whatever was in her pocket, but he hadn't yet had a chance to get into her pocket without her catching him.

"I'm going to curl up in bed and sleep for a week," she said and sighed again, as if she could feel the soft warm bed beneath her right now. He stopped picking at the scabbed wound and looked up at her again, his fingers tap-tap-tapping idly on the floor. "_Sleep?_" he asked, raising his eyebrow and trying to sound arch and obscene – how he used to – and he thought maybe he succeeded from the way she blushed at him, fingers twisting up nervously into a lank strand of hair by her face.

"That – _that'll_ be what we do the second week," she said hesitantly, eyeing him as though she was afraid her mentioning sex would set him off, even though he managed – _wanted – _to screw her every day without freaking out, even when it wasn't rough and angry and just about letting out his boiling emotions. Draco's left eye twitched convulsively as _he_ set himself off with his thoughts and his insides curdled horribly, but he forced a smile to curve his lips because they were both trying very, very hard to act normally these past few days. Because they were slipping, and it scared them, so they tried to _pretend_.

He tried to think of something clever and witty to say, but pulled up a blank, and his eyes flicked back to his scabbed, bleeding bite mark.

"Sounds good," he said vaguely, losing his grip on the normality of the moment and disappearing back into his head and he _knew_ it was happening, but couldn't quite bring himself to care enough to stop it. His fingers idly pick-pick-picked at the bite, and he was dimly aware of Hermione sliding over to him, her hair tickling and rough on his arm and neck, and the warm weight of her head tipped against his shoulder.

"We're going to get out, Draco, I swear," she said very softly and with a desperate tone that let him know she _wasn't_ actually totally sure, but for a moment, Draco really, really _almost_ believed her.

**# # # # # #**

She knew that today was the day Snape was supposed to take down the anti-apparition wards, and she'd been praying all day that she'd be able to get her hands on a wand. That they wouldn't come to torture them until the coin had glowed hot, so she could snatch one of their wands and disapparate with Draco before the unsuspecting Death Eaters even knew what had happened. But they'd come and taken them away early that morning, and it had gone on _forever_ and Hermione had passed out and only come to when she was dumped on the cell floor to the tune of Draco swearing viciously at their captors in a thick, slurred voice.

He'd stumbled to his knees by her side and she'd blinked through bleary, swollen eyes and tried to flail an arm out for him. The floor was cold on her back and arms and…_legs?_ Hermione made a frightened sound and tried to look down at her body to see why her legs felt so cold, like they were _bare_, and Draco's arm came up around her. "Easy, easy. They – they…"

"My _clo'es_, Dra-Draco my _clo'es. _Wha' happen'?" The words came out all garbled and she retched as blood trickled down her throat, and he tipped her to one side gently, so she could let it dribble out onto the floor. His voice was horribly tight as he answered her.

"Your –" He sounded like he was strangling on something, like he was going to vomit all over her, and he slurred from however they'd hurt his mouth. But all she could think about was her trousers, and fear was icier than the floor on her skin. "Your kn-knickers are still on, Hermione. They – they didn't…"

"_Chausses. _Whe'?" she asked urgently, not thinking or giving a damn about whatever they'd done to her while she was unconscious right now, only thinking about the _coin_, the fucking _coin _in her trouser pocket, and she _needed _it. He jerked his head to the side and she saw the motion, blurry and distorted, his pale hair nearly white in the light, except where it was streaked by dark red.

"They're here."

"Get them," she demanded-pleaded and he did as she bid, confusion and sickness on his face, and a sigh of relief sank out of her as she pushed herself painfully to one elbow and felt the pocket with shaking hands, and her thumb ran over the outline of the coin there.

"_Jesus._" She fell back, head knocking slightly on the stones in her clumsy exhaustion and pain. His face hovered over her, grey eyes wide and worried and dried blood crusted beneath his nose. His arms came around her, lifting her up to him with a struggle and a grunt, and then they were locked together on the ground, and her head was buried against his shoulder. Pain seared through her despite the rough healing they must have both received, like always, and she winced at the trembling ache through her muscles.

"I thought…they – they were going to –" Draco started; the words all thick and shapeless so she had to strain to make them out. Hermione slid her arms around his waist, despite the pain in them when she moved them, and clung on like a limpet. His heart thundered against her ear, and his breath rasped on the top of her head, uneven, jagged.

"Bu' they din't?" She felt slightly ill – _very_ ill – thinking that they _could have_, and she wouldn't have even been _aware_ of it, and somehow that seemed worse, although she would have thought it would have been better, not being conscious. But it no longer seemed that way, and she shuddered, her arms still locked around his waist and her hand bunching her chausses up against his back, clutching onto the coin inside them. Eventually, his breathing calmed, and she let the slowing, steady beat of his heart soothe her own nerves.

"Has whatever's in your pocket got anything to do with why you've been so _shitting_ positive lately, Hermione?" Draco asked slyly, head bent so that he was whispering so close to her ear she could feel his lips curve into a weak smile as she jolted. Of _course_ he knew something was up. Neither of them might be in their right minds, but he was still a damned Slytherin. He'd probably known something was going on for weeks – she wondered why he hadn't asked her about it.

"Yes," she said after a short pause.

"But you can't tell me anything about it?"

"No."

"Didn't think so," he sighed and hoisted her up in his arms a little, nestling her firmer on his lap, his forearms twitching and trembling with the after-effects of the _Cruciatus_. "Is it happening soon?" There was a thread of unravelling desperation in his words, and Hermione gnawed at her lip as she decided what to say and then stopped with a wince – her mouth was swollen and sore, and her lip didn't appreciate being bitten.

"We need to get our hands on a wand today. Not yet, but soon, probably – in the next few hours. I can tell you when," she murmured into his chest, and felt him nod slowly. "I was hoping they'd leave the – the torture until later when we need the wand, so we could grab one off them, but…now we need to get one some other way."

He grunted, chest rumbling with bitter humour. "Maybe Rostan'll come to _visit_."

Hermione shivered, but nodded against him, because really, that _was_ what they wanted. Otherwise she'd have to…make lots of noise and get the Death Eaters down here, or something – because if they tried to apparate without a wand they'd splinch themselves into a dozen pieces, and if they _didn't _apparate away then Draco would be left here tomorrow, while Hermione went with _Snape_, and she wasn't letting that happen. She _wasn't_ leaving Draco here, in Voldemort's hands. She pulled back from him, every movement _hurting_, trying unsuccessfully not to notice the fingermarks bruised into her thighs and breasts, and the bites that dotted her as he held her up unsteadily while she pulled her trousers on, the coin still cool and inactivated against her hip.

"If no one comes, I'll just pretend I've gone mad and threaten to kill you very loudly," he said, and she could _hear_ the dry smile in his voice. "They won't allow that."

"You're already mad, Draco," she answered with what she thought he wanted her to say, what she thought should be the appropriate response – unable to tell from instinct anymore, having to _think_ about how one was supposed to react normally – and was vaguely gratified when he snorted a laugh into her hair.

**# # # # # #**

She was curled into Draco, all tucked in his lap, and he'd draped the thickest blanket around her shoulders to cover her as she dozed in and out of edgy sleep. Tension thrummed in his veins. Something was going to happen today, something that involved getting a wand, and he was pretty fucking sure it wasn't to make a spot of tea. They were escaping today, if all went well. He thought about that, and thought about it, and his heart thumped like a drum in his chest, all tight and booming. The escape wasn't a moment too soon, either. If Draco hadn't been aware enough to scream at the Death Eaters torturing them, about Snape and not damaging his goods, then Hermione would have been naked and raped quicker than he could blink.

He gulped, stomach curdling at the thought_._

And even if Voldemort did give Hermione to Snape… Draco frowned to himself. Snape had always favoured Draco, always liked him, ever since he was a kid. He hoped desperately that Snape had claimed Hermione because he'd been able to tell she meant something to Draco, and was doing Draco a favour as he'd often done in the past. Draco had never thought of Snape as a rapist – the man had never touched a woman, Muggle or otherwise, in any sexual fashion, ever, as far as Draco knew, or had heard. His belief that Snape wasn't like that was still a rather slim hope given what was at stake, however. What if the man really _did_ want Hermione to be…? Well, Draco thought, burying his face into her matted hair and whiffing in the scent of her – rather _ripe_, but still _her_ – at least Snape was better than her being thrown to the Death Eaters to use up and throw away.

Fuck, was this what it had come to? Being glad that maybe it was just Snape who would…? They_ had _to get out.

Hermione stirred in his arms, her face nuzzled half into his chest, half into his armpit – which had rather startled Draco when she'd rather vigorously buried her face there. He couldn't imagine it was very pleasant, as they hadn't been _scourgified _in several days now, but she had resisted his efforts to tug her away and resettle her somewhere more pleasant. She said it was like a cave, with his arms up around her shoulders like that, holding the blanket around her. She'd said it made her feel _safe_. He'd smiled faintly at that, all packed with the silent, desperate hope that they might be free by the end of the day – if they could get a wand, apparently.

Draco's head jerked up when the bolt on the door thudded back, and his arms locked hard around Hermione. There was only one reason the Death Eaters came to the cell after they'd already tortured Draco and Hermione. He shuddered and shrank inside, and then _remembered_. Put his mouth to Hermione's ear as the cell door creaked slowly open.

"Do we need the wand yet?"

"No," she breathed miserably, and her fingers dug into his back, hugging him so tight he let out an _oof_ of breath as she crushed the wind right out of him. Shit. Shit. They were coming to get him and…and they couldn't grab the wand yet, so he – and they – were going to – _again oh Merlin __**fuck**__ no not again_ – Draco choked down a sob. He refused to give them the satisfaction. Maybe when they brought him back, maybe then she could use the wand, and they could escape then. Yes, he thought frantically, his hand petting rough over Hermione's head, preparing for Rostan's sneer, and hands ripping him away from Hermione, and everything that followed. Draco would think about _escape_. He'd think about that, and not what was happening to him, not at all.

And then a white-blonde head appeared in the gloom, and cold lips smiled down at him and Hermione, and Draco's heart froze in its beating for a second that seemed to go on forever. Oh _shit. _This couldn't be good.

"Hello father," he said through numb lips.

**# # # # # #**

**Author's Note: **So yeah…the escape is going to be next chapter… I'm sorry! This one was just getting rather long, and it was either make it _twice_ as long in length, and update time, or cut it at a natural ending point and post it now…so I cut it. Escape will be next chapter, I swear to god! Cross my heart!

This chapter I tried to focus on the mental and emotional effects of the torture and trauma and such, and the way in which they fall apart, and then come back together. I think it's natural for them to lash out at each other, as they start to snap, but in the end, they're always going to come back together – especially because right now, they're all each other has. I hope you liked it! Please leave me a review and let me know :)

Next chapter, they have a little _chat_ with Lucius, who incidentally, happens to have a wand on him, of course ::grins::


	7. She Walked Away

**Author's Note: **So many reviews! ::hugs for everyone:: Thank you _so much! _Now on with the escape chapter! It's a little bit shorter than the last, just because again, this was the natural ending point. I always feel a bit bad when my chapters are so short though, haha.

**Trigger Warnings for graphic violence, torture, graphic descriptions of attempted sexual assault, and (temporary, I swear to god) heart-rending sadness. **

_Abandon hope all ye who enter here._

**# # # # # #**

_**4. She Walked Away**_

_I knew a man who was afraid to love_

_To lay his heart on the bathroom rug_

_He drank his coffee in the same old mug_

_And sat in silence 'til the world fell numb_

_Until the day when a girl came by_

_She had eyes like the rising tide_

_He felt a sharpness deep inside_

_The kind of ache that can't be satisfied_

_[How We Love, Ingrid Michaelson]_

**# # # # # #**

"Draco." His father inclined his head, and Draco's eyes darted over the man, taking in the lankness and tangle of the white-blonde hair, the dirtiness of the expensive clothing, and the wildness in his eyes. A coil of hate licked up in Draco's chest, and his lip curled as he stared up at the monster who wore the skin of the man who had once tucked Draco into bed. There was a tremble to his father's wand hand, and his eyes were bloodshot, several days' growth of stubble on his haggard face, and he kept licking chapped lips as he stared at Draco. Their expressions were near enough to be mirror images, Draco knew – the same contemptuous sneer curling Draco's lips as he saw on his father's face, the same narrowed grey eyes.

There was a silence as the two Malfoys stared each other down, and Draco could hear Hermione's heart go _poundpoundpound _so fast against him, and her breath was ragged on his skin as she clung to him. She hadn't moved an inch since Draco had greeted his father, and her fingers were digging bloody gouges into his back that made him stiffen his shoulders and lift his chin, flatten his mouth in an attempt not to show the pain. He waited for his father to speak; eying him coolly despite the quick flutter-thump of his blood, because his father had a wand and the man had _cut off his _hand and Hermione was trapped in the circle of Draco's arms and it must be obvious what she meant to Draco, and _fuck fuck fuck, what would his father do to her?_

As Draco suspected, that was the first thing his father mentioned. It was an insult, not yet revealing his purpose or making him vulnerable, but rather, an attempt to set Draco off-balance. Well it wouldn't fucking work, Draco thought almost viciously – he was _already _unbalanced.

It worked, though.

"Dipping your wick in a dirty little mudblood's cunt now, are you, Draco?" His fath – _Lucius_ _he couldn't call him his father he was Lucius _– asked in a silky, amused voice, and Draco's blood boiled over as Hermione flinched and her nails dug deeper into Draco's flesh, her face pressed harder into him, like she was trying to hide inside his skin. And it wasn't _like_ that. It wasn't _like _how his father saw it – it was…

"Like father like son, I suppose. Except I don't have to _rape_ mine," he shot back, all ice and acid and his father chuckled, a manic edge to the sound, and Hermione flinched again and if Draco had that Muggle gun he could've bloody shot himself. He shouldn't show weakness in front of his father but he did anyway, because he'd hurt her and he couldn't fucking do that and just _leave _it. "_Sorry,_" he murmured awkwardly through barely moving lips, head bent down to Hermione's ear, but he knew his father heard because when he met Lucius' eyes again, the bastard was smiling faintly.

"Oh, it's like _that_, is it, Draco? Do you imagine yourself to _love_ the filthy little animal?"

Hermione stiffened and Draco felt her cheek blaze hot against his skin – with anger, he imagined, and his hand stroked a soothing path down her back over the blanket.

"I don't see why that would concern you…Lucius. You disowned me. Remember? What I do or do not feel for mud –" Draco cut himself off cursing inwardly as he nearly echoed his father's term from old habit. "–my feelings and whom they are directed towards, are none of your affair."

"Mudblood," Lucius rolled the word off his tongue, stalking into the room, looking like a half-maddened predator, the whites of his eyes more red than white, an edgy air of desperation to him. "At least I taught you well enough that you still think of them the same way, even if you deign to _love _them. Is it like having a pet dog, Draco? Does she always curl up on your lap like this? Have you taught her to lick your boots?"

"_Shut. Up._" Hermione was sitting up and hissing at Lucius before Draco could stop her, her face red and furious, eyes blazing, blanket clutched to her chest. "_Shut your –_"

Lucius flicked his wand and Hermione's lips slammed together mid-sentence, and her hand flew to her mouth, eyes wide, snorting through her nose as she sucked for air.

"_Release her,_" Draco snarled, but the words were impotent and Lucius knew that perfectly well, and pursed his lips, tsk-ed and shook his head. "I will no more stand for mudbloods talking when _I _am speaking, than I would tolerate a dog's yapping. I haven't harmed her, just silenced her." A gentle smile, as if Lucius was patiently waiting for Draco to thank him for not actually _hurting_ Hermione. His hand balled into a fist at Hermione's back, and he shifted, wrenching himself away from her. She made frightened, wide eyes at him, lips still mashed together, and he tucked the blanket around her.

"Stay down. I'll deal with him. It'll be okay," he muttered, waiting for her to nod once before he stood with a wince and a stagger, and stepped between Hermione and Lucius. It wasn't much protection, but it was all Draco could do.

"Stay?" His father's small smile spread into a malicious grin that split his face. "Does she also sit?" Lucius fingered his wand, stalking sideways to try to get a good look at Hermione, but Draco shifted with him, obscuring her from sight. "I wonder if she _begs_," Lucius crooned with a glint in his eye, and Draco felt _sick_. "I bet she _does_. Little mudblood Granger, begging for _mercy_ – or, is it begging for _more?_"

"What do you want, father?" Draco asked flatly, refusing to let Lucius drag him into his petty, nasty mind games. But Lucius ignored him, stalking to the other side now, and forcing Draco to shift again.

"Have you trained her to _cum_ when you call her, like a good little pet?" Lucius asked with a lazy grin instead of answering the question, and Draco bit back a snarl at that, his fist and jaw clenched. He swallowed hard and _forced _his features to reshape into bored contempt.

"Are you here for a reason, father? Or just to gloat?" He kept his tone as bored and contemptuous as his face, but Lucius just smiled at him knowingly; he was the one who had taught Draco to hide his feelings behind that mask, and he could see through the cracks in it perfectly well.

"Do you remember when you used to tell me about her when you came home in the school holidays, before –" Lucius waved his wand hand, "– before all of this?"

Draco stiffened further, chin jerking up, rocking back on his heels as if Lucius had struck him in the jaw, and he could hear his teeth grinding together as the fury poked and prodded at him, trying to get free.

"Yes, I do," Draco acknowledged flatly, a sick flipping going on in his stomach as he remembered, very, very clearly, picturing himself and his father in his mind's eye as he talked all that bigoted, puffed up, sadistic _shit_ he used to about Hermione. He felt goosebumps shiver up on his arms and back. "Now what the _fuck_ do you want?"

Lucius began to pace the room – three steps one way, three the other, _prowling_, twiddling his wand agitatedly between two fingers – but always keeping intensely alert eyes on Draco. "You made me proud, on _occasion,_ back then. You _hated_ the little bitch. You wanted to break her – make her grovel, make her beg; make her take her rightful place _licking. your. boots_. You had some damned _pride. _And now look at you – huddled in a stinking cell, clinging to some animal that not three years ago you would have _killed_."

Draco was only vaguely aware of Hermione's presence behind him as the anger roared up like the sea in his ears, deafening him and drowning out everything but the hard _swoosh-thud_ of his pulse. This was about more than just defending her – this about was defending _himself_. "I'm sorry to disappoint – yet again – but I never would have killed her, father. I couldn't even kill _Dumbledore_, even with everything that was at stake. I hated her, yes, because _you raised me to it_, but I don't believe I _ever_ would have killed her."

"No," Lucius said eying Draco with more than a hint of madness on his face, "I don't suppose you would have. You always were too weak. I had such great _hopes_ for you, such great ambitions, but in the end…in the end you came to nothing but disappointment and failure. You failed, you failed and instead of accepting your punishment from the Dark Lord you _ran _and you _hid_, you turned traitor and betrayed _everything_ I'd ever instilled in you, and you _took my wife with you!_" Lucius' voice rose and wavered shrilly, and Draco flinched as he heard Hermione's voice.

"You're mad. You poor, pathetic, mad – _ssss_–" Hermione's scathing assessment of Lucius broke off and she dragged in a hissing breath as he stabbed his wand toward her and snapped, "_Crucio!_"

Draco spun and saw Hermione's lips stretch back over her teeth, her mouth open wide and her body arch and flip back, the blanket falling from her shoulders as she twisted and _screamed_. He whirled back to Lucius.

"_Stop it. Stop._" Draco advanced across the small cell toward Lucius at a limp, murder on his mind, seething and seeing red, and he didn't give a damn what Lucius did to him because – because – Hermione's screams pierced through his ears and rang trapped in his skull and…

"_Repulso,_" his father said with a bored, casual tone as Draco came within arm's reach, and in the same second, Hermione's screams abruptly cut off, and Draco slammed back through the air, slamming full against the stone wall of the cell. The breath drove out of him, his head cracked on the stones with a sharp sound, and pain erupted in his back. And then he fell forward, crumpling to the floor on his elbows and knees. But Hermione was mercifully silent, save for soft, whimpering sobs.

"You have _never_ been able to best me, Draco," Lucius said cruelly. "What makes you think you can do so _now_, unarmed and wounded. _I _have all the power here."

Draco sucked in a breath, his head aching fiercely and his right shoulder feeling as though it had been broken – unable to put weight on that elbow thanks to the searing pain. He lifted his head and glared at his Lucius, his father's figure blurring and doubling in his vision as he heaved in air and spots danced in front of his eyes.

"And why _are_ you here, then, father?" he asked again, and Lucius hummed softly to himself, flicking his wand and sending Draco tumbling arse over elbow back to the wall next to Hermione, the world blurring and fear constricting his chest and making his muscles tense uselessly. He hit the wall hard and gasped and glared fury at Lucius, aware of Hermione trembling and shaking beside him, trying to pull the blanket back up over her to cover herself with hands that wouldn't do her bidding.

"I want my wife back. I _need _Narcissa. You _stole_ her away from me, you _took_ her, and _I need her back_."

"I don't know where she is," Draco said, trying to sound neutral and not set his father off with a defiant tone; and it was true – he _didn't_ know the location. He'd only ever been apparated there, and he wasn't one of the secret keepers, so he couldn't apparate anyone else there, he had to go side-along with one of the people cleared to access the place. Lucius' pale grey eyes narrowed, and that gleam of madness there frightened Draco, because sanity could be reasoned with, but _this_ – this couldn't be. Lucius' hair swung around his face, dirty and straggling, and he scratched hard at one scruffily stubbled cheek with unkempt nails.

"You must. _You must,_" Lucius growled and then snapped out his wand again and snarled the Unforgivable, and it was Draco's turn to feel his eyes roll back with the pain as every muscle in his body stretched to snapping point with the convulsions, and every nerve _flamed_ like he was burning alive. Draco knew he was screaming – he could hear it vaguely, but the strongest sound was that of his blood, swooshing and racing and pulsing in his ears. And then he couldn't think of anything as the pain took him and made him its creature, its toy, filling him up and tearing out of him. He went limp with a shudder when the pain ended, blissfully, tears streaking his cheeks and limbs twitching involuntarily, sucking in huge breaths and trying to _think_ again.

It had been worse even than the Death Eaters' curses had been, and Draco wondered just how much his father _meant it_. It must be a lot, a fucking _hell_ of a lot, because that pain had been worse – worse than anything, ever. He could hear Hermione screaming at Lucius, all hot, unafraid anger, calling him every name under the sun, and then breaking off and screaming again with agony herself as his father no doubt turned his wand on her, and Draco cursed her stupid Gryffindor bravery.

"I don't know where she _is_," he dragged out hoarsely, trying to make himself heard over Hermione's screams. "_I don't know where she is!_"

"You _must _know," his father snapped back, voice raised as Hermione just kept screaming and screaming, her voice rising and falling, and wailing raw and piercing.

"Stop hurting her! Stop _fucking_ hurting her, you _bastard!_"

"Answer me, then, Draco! _Tell_ _me where Narcissa is!_"

"I don't know! I don't fucking know! I can't take you there! I've only ever side-along apparated! And it's _protected!_" he yelled frantically as Hermione kept screaming and screaming, and he scrambled to bend over her, unable to do anything but watch as her hands flapped out like panicked birds and nearly hit him in the face, her heels dug into the ground and her back arched until he thought it was going to snap, blood starting to trickle from her nose.

"_Stop hurting her! __**Please!**_"

"Tell me where my wife is then!" Draco spared a glance for his father, and the man was red with rage, eyes opened so wide Draco could see the bloodshot whites all the way around, mouth twisted into a snarl. He looked utterly _insane_, nearly foaming at the mouth, and Draco knew he wasn't going to stop hurting Hermione until one of them told him where his mother was being kept. He sucked in a breath.

"I can tell you what the place looks like, but I don't know anything else! I swear to Merlin! Please, just _stop!_"

Hermione's hands beat against the stone, palms slapping the ground hard, raw, wrenching, shuddering gurgles spilling from her throat, and it sounded like she was trying to speak through the pain.

"Tell me then, Draco," his father ordered coldly.

"Stop _hurting her _first!"

"You aren't in a position to make any demands, Draco. _Tell me, now!_" His father smiled. "Or I _won't_ stop."

Hermione gurgled again and Draco's hand clenched into a fist.

"It's –"

"_Nnn – no. NO, Drac…don'…_" Hermione strangled out past all the pain, the blood from her nose tracking down across her cheek and jaw, losing itself in the dark matted tangle of her hair.

"_What._" Draco stared at her in horrified shock. No, no, Hermione couldn't do this. She couldn't do this to him. He couldn't just shut his mouth and let his father keep _torturing_ her until she suffered the fatal fucking brain haemorrhage it looked like she was going to have.

"_Never…forgi' you…nnnngh…'on't tell…_"

"_Fuck!_ _**Fuck!**_" Draco stared up at his father, his mind racing. If she said she was never going to forgive him, she _meant it_. Maybe – maybe he could use this. Bluff. Stall for time. Try to reason with his father, _something._ "I can't. _I can't_. She doesn't – doesn't want me to. _I can't._" He felt like he was going to throw up everywhere, and he was hoping against bloody hope that his father believed Draco's bluff and lifted the _Cruciatus_, because if this went on a minute longer he was going to tell his father everything he knew even if Hermione hated him forever.

"How _irritating_ that Gryffindor willingness to self-sacrifice is, hmm?" Lucius asked, trying to sound in control but just sounding totally psychotic as he – oh _thank fucking Merlin – _lifted the _Cruciatus_.

This gave them a reprieve, at least. Gave them a chance to…shit, Draco didn't know _what_. For the time to be right for them to need a wand, he supposed frantically, as he clumsily helped Hermione sit up, her muscles still jerking and shivering, tears and blood streaking her face. Maybe they could grab it off Lucius. Maybe…maybe this would work out in the end after all. All he could do was fucking hope.

"We'll try something else, then," Lucius said, eyes wild, scratching at his cheek again and not even noticing when he broke the skin and raised a faint scrape. "We have _plenty _of time. Rostan said I could _play _with you until midnight tonight, as long as I didn't kill you, or, apparently, fuck the mudblood."

Draco's heart thudded unevenly at Lucius' mention of Rostan and of fucking – raping – Hermione, and he could feel the fear-sweat trickling down his temples as adrenaline pumped through him.

"But then I don't particularly care if Snape's _mudblood_ _reward_ is damaged. I never like the pathetic, greasy, snivelling, arse-licker. And from the look of things, you're screwing her tight little mudblood cunt anyway, so it won't be as though Snape will be _surprised_ to find her not a virgin."

Everything stopped. Everything just _stopped_ and Draco stared wide-eyed at Lucius, at his father, trying to understand the words _his father_ had just _said_. The rage was like a torrent, so _big_, so _overwhelming_ he was trapped inside it, unable to move, unable to speak, just feeling the blood pounding at his temples and his heart lub-dubbing in his chest like fury and anger and _no. No. Nononono__**no**__. _Not his _father_. Not _Hermione_. Draco's stomach _lurched_ and he unfroze at last, his first move to fall forward onto his knees and one hand, and retch, bile stinging his throat but nothing coming up. He spat on the ground, blood and saliva, still lurching and gulping down more retches, and so, so fucking sick. Stared up at his father from his prone position, and shook his head.

"No." His voice sounded very dull and far away, lifeless. "No. No, you can't – can't do that…"

His father just stared at him. Smiled humourlessly.

"You…can't do that." Draco felt numb. Like everything was falling apart and crashing down, and it was all finally _over_. This was the end. His father and Hermione. His father and…Hermione. "You can't," he said again flatly.

"I think you'll find that I _can_. Who is going to stop me, hmm? I have the wand, here, Draco. You and the mudblood are totally powerless." The bastard enjoyed rubbing that fact in Draco's face, and Draco wanted to _kill_ him. A heavy, hopeless feeling suffused his body, and his mind swam.

"I'll tell you what I know then," he said, dropping his head in defeat.

"Good," his father began to say, and then Hermione's voice cut through his. "No. _No_." She sounded terrified and sickened, but her voice was firm, and Draco turned his eyes on her to find her staring at him steadily, wiping at the blood on her cheek. "If you tell him what the place looks like, he _will_ be able to find it, you _know _that. And we might not be able to warn –" She cut herself off, but Draco knew what she meant. If they didn't escape today, then they wouldn't be able to warn the safehouse to evacuate. _Shit_. She couldn't do this to him. The _fucking bitch_ couldn't do this to him. Couldn't seriously want him to sit by and watch while… "We can't risk that happening. There are _children _there, Draco, and no Aurors, no battle-trained wizards or witches – they'll be _slaughtered_. We can't –"

"_No!_ Fucking _no, _Hermione!" he raged at her, slamming his fist into the ground, the cords in his neck standing out taut as he screamed the denial, and he could feel his father's amused eyes on them.

"A lover's spat. How unfortunate," his father commented and Draco snarled at him, shoved himself to his feet and flung himself towards the evil bastard, but he'd only taken one step when bindings slammed around him and he toppled to the ground with a thud that drove the air out of him. He rolled to a halt facing Hermione, several feet away, and desperately choking for air so he could speak.

"Hermione, I have to!" he yelled furiously at her, his eyes boring into hers, not giving a damn about slaughtered children, because Draco wasn't lying here and _watching _his father…_shit_. _Fuck_. _No. _"I _can't_ just –"

"_No!_ I'm not living knowing that _because of me _they all died…_ I can't…_can't take that chance…" Hermione sobbed, and Draco supposed dully that she couldn't. His heart sank. Tell his father and save Hermione, only to have her hate him, and be racked by guilt for the rest of her _stupid, noble_ bloody life. Or lie here and keep his mouth shut and listen as his father raped her. Choices, choices, so many choices, he thought hysterically, feeling more utterly _dead_ inside than he ever had before in his life.

"If you tell him I'll never forg –"

And then was she cut off as his father crossed the cell like liquid lightning and slammed his hand into Hermione's throat, bending over her with his wand to her temple, and all Draco could see of her past his father's body was her bloodied ear and a single red-rimmed eye, and the firewhiskey brown was filled with horror and desperation and _damned _determination.

"I'll tell –" Draco started limply, but Hermione managed to gurgle past his father's firm grip on her throat, "You gave them to Greyback. _You gave them – you said you were sorry but you're doing it again you __**bastard!**_"

Draco snapped his mouth shut, and vaguely noticed the tears seeping hot from beneath his squeezed shut eyelids, collecting on his eyelashes and dripping off. "Don't ask me to…don't ask me…_please, Hermione._" But he was trapped, and he knew it. She'd trapped him, the _bitch_, and now… Draco heard the snick of metal, and knew it was his father's belt. Heard the rustlings of clothing, and Hermione grunting, and the thump of flesh on flesh, and his father wincing and swearing at her to _be still_, and her cursing his name and _fighting_ because that was what she was, a fighter, and his father would have to restrain her or beat her into half-unconsciousness before he could do _it_, but he _would_, because _he _had the wand, and all of the power.

And the tears kept seeping from Draco's eyes as he listened to Hermione struggle, and his father laugh at her – taking his time, enjoying her fruitless attempts to escape and fight him off, because in the end Lucius knew that he would win, and so did Draco.

**# # # # # #**

She wasn't going to let Lucius win. She didn't care _what_ he did to her – _yes she did yes she did yesshedid – _but she wasn't going to let him bloody _win_. Hermione wasn't going to let him have even a _chance_ of finding his wife, because she wasn't going to risk all those children being killed because of _her_. Apart from Narcissa, they only had four adult wizards and witches stationed at that safehouse full time, and two of them were elderly, and none of them were experienced fighters, and Hermione could _see_ the blood and the carnage in her mind. And this was better. This was _better_. She wanted to die. She was terrified and she wanted to _die_ rather than let _Draco's father_ – while Draco was right _there_, not four feet _away_. _God._

Hermione slammed the heel of her hand into Lucius' nose, felt it crunch and he swore and backhanded her, grinning through the blood as he did. He was on her legs, pinning her to the floor, and she reared back beneath him, flipping and wriggling and clawing with all her strength, refusing to let herself imagine what it was going to _be like_ but imagining it anyway. Wondering sickly if it would be like…Draco at all…and then wanting to vomit at the unbidden _evil _thought. He panted above her, rough and ragged, and his tongue licked sloppy over her jaw and revolted horror wrenched through her, she shoved at his shoulders, swearing at him and screaming.

"What would – your _wife_ think of _this_," she choked out, spattering her _dirty dirty _blood on his face and neck as she tipped her head back and glared into his eyes. _God_ they looked just like Draco's. She jerked her gaze away fast, heart thundering and sick _sicksick_, because oh _god oh Merlin_ those were _Draco's _eyes staring down at her all bloodshot and mad and she _couldn't see that._ She _couldn't_ let herself see Draco in his father when – when – when…

"Trying to stall, are we?" Lucius choked out unevenly as he tried to pin Hermione with his body weight and unbutton his trousers, and she gasped for air that wouldn't come because he was _crushing _her, and tried to flip him off but he was too _heavy_. She rammed her head forward, smacking her forehead into his already broken nose as hard as possible and he howled and yanked his hand up to smack her across the face. Her ears rang and she saw bright lights in front of her eyes, and her face felt like it was on fire, swinging sideways to jab further into the point of his wand, still held at her temple.

"You – _pathetic _– _impotent_ – _slug_…" Hermione spat, her forehead feeling like it was going to bruise and her face already feeling like it was swelling up from his blow. Lucius laughed at that and fumbled about and then she _felt _his final button pop free. "Impotent?" he asked her breathlessly, a sadistic enjoyment curling darkly through his tone, and then the horrible, hard heat of his erection was thrusting into the base of her belly. His – his _oh god __**no**__ – _jabbing rough and uselessly against the naked skin of her abdomen as he grunted, and she made a weird, horrible sound and twisted under him, legs thrashing and hands balled into fists, striking out wildly at him and screaming. Not words, just anger, defiance.

She could hear Draco swearing and cursing in a voice so twisted with hate and tears it didn't even sound like him, and she _hated _that he had to see this. She hated that almost as much as she hated Lucius _doing_ it to her. He had lived through Rostan, so she _could_ live through Lucius, she _had _to…but _Jesus_ how did you live through watching your father rape the woman you love? All this flashed through her mind in blurs and races as she caught Lucius' ear with her fist, and then _oh thank Merlin_ managed to unseat him off her as she tried to jerk her knee up into his groin and he rolled away to protect himself.

She scrambled to her feet, swaying, feeling dizzy and trembly but with the strength of terror and adrenaline zipping through her _hard_ and fled to another corner of the cell, but there was nowhere to run to. Nowhere to go. She was trapped and eventually… She waited for the spell to hit her and _stupefy _her or otherwise incapacitate her, but Lucius just growled and stalked towards her, his erection bobbing stiff and purple-red between his legs, and she wanted to sink into the stone behind her. She wanted her _wand_. She wanted to be able to _defend _herself. Draco lay between them, bound from shoulder to feet in thick magical ropes, and there was no way he was getting free to help her, despite his desperate struggles.

"Oh, but you _are _fun. I can see why Draco _enjoys_ you so much, mudblood," Lucius said, smirking, and again for a second he looked so much like Draco that Hermione's heart stuttered sickened in her chest. She darted along the wall to the other corner as he approached her, a desperate game of 'keep away', with herself as the object – fitting, because that was all she was to Lucius. Just an object. An animal to use. A…

"He'll never tell you."

"Oh, I think he will…"

"No. No he won't. He knows me. He knows I really would rather _die_ if need be than let you hurt anyone because of me. _He won't tell you_." She rushed it out in a panicked voice, and hoped she was right. Hoped that Draco would keep his mouth shut and not tell. That he wouldn't let Lucius use Hermione to break Draco, because that was what it was really about. It was about using _her _to break Draco, and she wouldn't be Lucius' tool. She _wouldn't_. And then Lucius was on her, grabbing at her, flinging her hard to the ground and she went tumbling, bouncing off the stone – shoulder, hip, head, shoulder, elbow – and her body exploded with the pain. She landed not two feet from Draco, coughing and hacking for breath, and he opened his squeezed shut eyes.

Grey met brown, and _god_ those eyes – they looked just like his father's, only there was no madness there, just hate and horror and a wretched, wretched helplessness as he silently pleaded with her.

"_Don't_," she whispered and Draco just _looked _at her like she was tearing his heart out of his chest and shredding it to bits with her fingernails. She supposed she was, but how did he think _she _felt?

And then the breath rushed out of her as his father dropped to his knees, straddling her legs, his palm smacking down into her diaphragm with all his weight, and his wand clenched in his fist at her side. Hermione didn't even think about it – she jerked her leg up as _hard _as she could, and her kneecap smacked straight into his father's groin, and Lucius howled and sagged for a moment, and then lifted his horribly familiar grey eyes to hers and snarled, _"Crucio,_" and Hermione lost herself to the pain.

She thought that maybe she blacked out for a moment, because the next thing she was aware of was a tugging at the laces of her chausses, and she dizzily wondered what was going on, and why she was shaking and hurting and who was trying to take her trousers off? And then her brain tuned into Draco shouting until his voice broke and cracked, a slew of furious curses and hate and pleas for his father to stop, and she remembered what was happening to her. She struck out at Lucius blindly, and he slammed his wand arm up to her throat, holding her still while he tried to drag her chausses down. She twisted her head, tucking her chin in and _biting_ his arm as hard as she could, and when he ripped his arm free she tasted blood and her teeth hurt and wobbled in her gums.

"_Gerroffme,_" she was slurring over and over in a furious growl, snatching at her chausses and trying to pull them back up as he stabbed blindly with something warm and soft at her pubic bone, through her knickers. A quick rush of relief hit Hermione as she understood Lucius was limp; she must have hit him hard enough to quash his arousal, and that gave her some time, some time… Draco was yelling and she was sobbing and growling like the animal Lucius had called her, thrashing beneath him and trembling with pain, the butt of his wand jabbing into the side of her breast as he pawed at it with that hand. He was wrestling with her chausses with the other hand, and despite all her struggles, managed to get them down her thighs a bit, thrusting uselessly at her crotch, her knickers still up.

And then her knickers were down and he was pressing against her, and she grunted as she tried to clamp her thighs shut, shoving at Lucius' face with her hands, all chaos and panic and _sick sicksicksick_. He was huffing and cursing and furious, red-faced above her, eyes glaring, because he _wasn't getting hard_ and a corner of Hermione's frantic mind fervently thanked Merlin for small fucking favours. Lucius struck her hard then, fist clipping up into her jaw and her head snapped back and pain erupted down her jaw and stabbed into the base of her neck at the awkward angle he'd snapped her neck into. She felt his weight lift off her and her shaking hands tried to rip her chausses back up, shoved herself back with scrabbles of her feet on the stone.

What the hell was he going to do now? What the hell what the hell oh _god._

Draco's head had fallen back to the stone, and his eyes were shut, lips moving but Hermione couldn't hear what he was saying. It appeared to be thankful, relieved. That his father hadn't done it, she supposed, whooping in ragged breaths and trying not to faint. But then Lucius was looming over Draco, wand in hand, and Hermione choked in a breath of fear. What was Lucius going to do now? Try to use _Draco _against her?

"It won't work," she said, voice shaking and sounding ragged and deeply hoarse, and not at all like her. "It won't work. I'll never tell."

That was a _lie_, and she had always been _awful_ at lying, and she begged and begged whatever might be listening to her that Lucius was less astute than his son, or too lost in his madness to notice the tremble to her voice and darting away of her eyes.

Lucius smiled, kneeling by Draco and tapping his wand on Draco's bonds, so that his left hand sprang free and slapped to the ground, stretched out full length. Hermione saw Draco furrow his brow, his face going red with effort as he tried and _tired _to rip his arm up, but it stayed there, essentially glued by his father's magic. Hermione had a horrible feeling she knew what Lucius was going to say next, and her heart dropped and sank into the pit of her stomach, and she felt clammy and shakier than ever. No. No he couldn't. No please dear _god_ he couldn't do that. Not _that._ That was worse than rape, worse than _anything_.

"I don't think the Dark Lord will mind if you have a few _pieces_ missing when he returns – do you?" Lucius asked his son – _his son oh god his son not again not again not his other hand_ – with a terrible enjoyment on his features. Draco went stark white and his lips clamped together, his eyes rolling up to find Hermione, a dreadful plea in them and _she didn't know what to do_. Her breath was juddering through her – nearly hyperventilating, light-headed, trembling from the _Cruciatus_, and the only way she could stop Lucius was to get his wand off him, or tell him the truth, because her lies wouldn't hold water with him.

"Tell me where my wife is."

Draco stared at her with his eyes huge in his face and lips compressed to bloodlessness, and she could see the struggle it took him not to open his mouth and scream at her to tell his father the truth, to tell him everything she knew, or to tell his father the truth himself. She hated herself. He wouldn't tell his father unless _she _gave him leave to – she knew that suddenly, clear as crystal in her mind. Two pairs of grey eyes were on Hermione as she sprawled there on her bum in the cell, her teeth chattering and head spinning – two pairs of grey eyes that were identical except one held terror and the other rage.

Hermione tensed, considering flinging herself at Lucius, and he grinned ferally at her as if he'd read her mind. "Uh, uh, uh, mudblood. I can sever his hand before you even move a muscle. I wouldn't risk it, if I were you."

"Please, Mal – Lucius, don't. Don't – he's your son. He's your _son, _you can't _do _this, _please! _What would Narcissa say? What would she _say?_" Hermione begged, stalling for time, just a little more time. She had to hope, had to think that there was a way out of this. There was always a solution, even if she couldn't see it at first. Lucius looked calmly at Hermione.

"I won't tell her, of course." He frowned down at his son's hand, and then made a small decisive sound. "I think I'll be kind. Give you both plenty of chances to _tell me where my wife is_."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest again, and then flinched as a sudden burning pain lanced into her hip, and she _realised_. Eyes wide and heart beating faster than ever, renewed strength flowing through her, Hermione realised that _Snape had taken down the wards_. Lucius' eyes were on Draco's hand, and this was the only chance she would get, so Hermione swallowed down the terror, bunched her muscles, and flung herself the several feet at him, tackling him hard. But Lucius _saw _her leap and his wand slashed and Draco _screamed_ and in a tangling tumble of arms and legs, Hermione saw a spurt of blood, a flash of Draco's mouth clamping shut around his screams, locking them inside him, his – his hand – his _hand_ with his _pinky missing_ and Hermione felt sick that she was _grateful_ it had only been his little finger. But she _was_.

Hermione grunted as Lucius elbowed her in the stomach, and she smashed her forehead into the ruin of his bloodied, broken nose accidentally, and thank Merlin; it gave her the chance to grab his wand. It was like an awful, nightmarish game of tug of war – both hanging onto one end of his wand; he distracted by the pain in his nose enough that he wasn't hitting out at her yet, and she on her arse, kicking out at his legs and crotch with her feet. If she didn't get it – get it soon, he'd be recovered enough that she'd never have the chance to get it off him again. The coin was burning in her pocket, _burning_, and she could smell the smoulder of leather and stench of roasting skin, sickening in the air.

She jerked and _pulled_ at the wand, and then landed a lucky kick as he reared up onto his knees – her shin slamming up into his bollocks, and he _let go of the wand_ and Hermione went tumbling over backwards, whirling into the corner of the cell and dazing herself as her head cracked on the stones. She was up, up before she could even think about it, staggering and swaying, hip _burning _and whole body in pain, and Lucius was…bending over Draco with his hands at each side of his son's head.

"Give me my wand, or I'll snap his neck."

She cast at him without thinking; a stunner – but his wand _knew _that she wasn't its master and the bolt of light that came out was weak, striking Lucius' shoulder but only making him shake his head to clear it, and glare at her, nearly foaming at the bloody mouth, looking like a madman all streaked with blood and his nose a ruin. No. _Oh no_. She had an all but useless wand – it still recognised Lucius as its master and wouldn't cast against him, and she couldn't overpower him physically, and if she tried anything, Lucius would snap Draco's neck – and she believed him when he said he would. Shit, shit _shit, _they were screwed.

"Think carefully, mudblood. It only takes a second…and _crrrrack…_" Lucius drawled, sneering.

Her wide eyes went to Draco's as her chest heaved for air, not knowing _what_ to do, and he opened his mouth, eyes pinned on her and filled with something she couldn't identify.

"If you can, then…_ Fuck. Fuck. _Do it. _Do it, Hermione,_" Draco snarled, and for a second Hermione thought he meant for her to give the wand back to Lucius, and then his eyes flicked to her hip, where the coin smoked at her skin and chausses, and she realised what he meant. No. Oh no. She _couldn't. _She _couldn't._

"_No_. Draco…" she moaned, her wandless hand coming up to clench into a fist at her chest, where a fierce ache was beginning.

"_Do it or I'll never forgive you!_" Draco screamed, echoing her words back at her, and oh _god_, they were so cruel to hear. She flinched back into the corner at the sound of them, and Lucius grinned as he watched the exchange, thinking they were talking about the wand – think he was going to _win_. Hermione limped forward one step, eyes locked to Draco's, and she heard Lucius chuckling with gleeful, vicious anticipation and tried to ignore him.

"_Do it,_" Draco whispered, and she knew he meant it with every fibre of him – no doubt in his eyes. Just pain, and a grim, sure certainty. He wanted her to. He wanted it, his eyes like smoke and ice and river stones and storm clouds and everything beautiful and cold and distant and unreachable, and he didn't say another word. Not even an _I love you_. It took her a second, just a _second _to imprint every millimetre of Draco's face into her mind as clear as a Muggle photograph, and she felt like she was tearing apart from the inside out, a horrible pressure building and _building _inside her – she _couldn't she couldn't she couldn't __**shecouldn't!**_

She didn't tell him she loved him either, just shut her eyes against Draco's face, and could still see it on the inside of her eyelids. Grey eyes and too thin and sharp nose and bearded and blood and pain and everything that she loved…

Hermione chased away the image of him, pictured the Godric's Hollow house in her mind, and spun on the spot with a crack that felt like it was her heart snapping.

**# # # # # #**

**Author's Note: **Oh god, this was honestly such a hard chapter to write ::goes and has a little cry:: I'm sorry I did that to all of you, but it's for the, ah, greater good? The greater plotline, anyway! :p It's all part of my plan :)

I hope you – well, _liked it_ probably isn't the right term to use, but I hope it was a _good_, _gripping_ chapter, even though it was horribly, depressingly sad – imo anyway. (Sadness only temporary! I swear! Please don't kill me!)

Pretty please leave a review and let me know what you thought of it!


	8. I Feel the Darkness

**Author's Note:**_ Another chapter! _Thank you so, so, so much for the reviews! I'm sorry for torturing you all with all these horrible things happening, but please trust me when I say it has an awesome plot purpose!Oooor, at least, what _I_ think is awesome, which is, of course, entirely subjective and you could all hate it :D

I wrote this chapter in around seven hours, while looking after two small children…I'm kind of amazed I got it done so quick, but I felt like after the cliffhanger of the last chapter, you all deserved another chapter quick-smart! Not that I'm saying it's happy or anything…because it's kind of _not._

**Trigger Warnings for general angst, but actually…nothing much really, this chapter. Just angst and sadness :D**

_Abandon hope, all ye who enter here._

**# # # # # #**

_**5. I Feel the Darkness**_

_The drops of rain they fall all over_

_This awkward silence makes me crazy_

_The glow inside burns light upon her_

_I'll try to kiss you if you'll let me_

_(This can't be the end)_

_Tidal waves they rip right through me_

_Tears from eyes worn cold and sad_

_Pick me up now, I need you so bad_

_[Down, Blink 182]_

**# # # # # #**

Hermione landed on the floor of the foyer with a crack, sprawling on her hands and knees, Lucius' wand falling as pain tore through her side, and a scream tore from her lips. She slammed her hand against her side and felt a bleeding, raw hollow of meat at her waist instead of smooth skin, and jerked her hand away. The light was so bright it made her eyes sting and she squeezed them shut, thinking _Draco, Draco, Draco _with a horrible, hollow pain that the physical agony couldn't eclipse.

"Harry!" she screamed his name as multiple footsteps pounded towards her, and shocked gasps and cries rang out, her name being called over and over amongst the babble of voices.

"–Mione!"

"Oh Merlin, she's splinched her–"

"What _happened to –_"

"Hermione!"

"Someone get _Tricia!_"

"– fucking _kill _the bastards!"

"Fuck, Hermi–"

"–ere's Malfoy?"

A stupid rush of shame hit Hermione as she realised she was shirtless, her chausses unlaced, covered in blood and scars and her – her trousers had actually caught _fire_, the smouldering actually bursting into flame. She screamed again and rolled to the side, falling onto her back and struggling to wrench the coin out of her pocket. There were hands grabbing at her but she didn't realise what they were doing; reacted instinctively to the way she did hands grabbing at her now, and screamed and tried to buck away – expecting pain, expecting violation.

"Don't touch her!"

The hands dropped back and raised voices were shouting and babbling and everything sounded like chaos, and her _side _and her _hip_ and _Draco ohgodDracowhatdidIdo. _ She snapped her fingers around the coin and yanked it out, flung it weakly away onto the rug and then shoved her burnt fingers in her mouth, sucked on them, feeling blood pouring out of her side and hearing Tricia Fideloff's voice as she bent over Hermione and muttered charms and other healing spells, trying to heal the wound. The drip of dittany and the searing sting of pain as it healed over slowly. The gasps of people staring at her. But Hermione was locked behind her eyes – picturing _him_ in that last second, before she'd disapparated.

"Someone, deactivate that bloody coin before it sets the bloody carpet on fire!" Hermione vaguely identified that as Tonks, sounding uncharacteristically panicky.

"_Bloody he_ – why don't _you?_" George – or maybe Fred – shocked and yet still being annoying even through the panic of the situation.

"I haven't got my wand on me, I've got Teddy, now just hurry up and bloody do it, Fred!" Tonks shot back and Hermione's lips made a faint smile past all the pain and the hollow grief at the thought of _Draco – DracoDracoDraco oh god I left him I left him._ She was home. She was _home_.

He wasn't.

"Jesus, Hermione. _Jesus_." That was Harry, she realised, and she squinted against the bright light and saw horrified green eyes behind round glasses and a shock of dark hair, filling her half-blinded vision. "It's okay. You're safe. Tricia'll fix you up. It's all right. _Jesus Christ._" He turned his head away as someone barked out a question she couldn't quite make out, and Hermione tried to snag his arm with a trembling hand.

"Harry – _Harry._"

His head snapped back to hers, eyes so wide and so green, and she blinked back tears of pain and grief and the wateriness the light caused. "It's going to be all right, Hermione," he told her again, the way he sounded as if he was going to start crying not reassuring her at all, and that wasn't her problem _anyway_. She didn't care about herself because she was home, she was safe, she was fucking _fine_ – it was _Draco_ who… She shook her head minutely and winced at the movement. "_No_ – Harry… I…"

"What is it, Hermione?" Ugh, why wouldn't he just _shut up_ and let her _speak?_ But after that last question, and her ferocious if dazed glare, he fell silent at last, waiting, eyes glued to hers.

"Harry – I – I left him." It hurt so much, saying that – saying it like that – so she tried again, rephrasing with swollen, numbed lips. "He _made _me leave him. I – _I_ _left him, _Harry, oh _god_, we have to go get him_ – we hav…_"

"It's all right. It's going to be okay…"

And then everything went utterly dark, and Hermione knew nothing more.

**# # # # # #**

Voldemort was angry. Extremely, extremely angry. Draco could tell, because his already high voice had risen several octaves, and was _vibrating _with force, even though he wasn't speaking over-loudly. Lucius was on the floor of the Malfoy Manor, in nearly the same spot Hermione had been tortured in, and Draco watched through slitted eyes, thinking there must be some sort of ironic justice in that. His father writhed and screamed as Voldemort _crucioed _him mercilessly, releasing the spell every few moments to berate his father while he gasped for mercy and pleaded for Voldemort's forgiveness.

The floor was hard on Draco's knees, and he swayed, trying not to fall over – so weak, and with his arms wrenched back and bound behind him at the elbows, there would be no way to catch himself if he fell. He wondered what Voldemort was going to do with him. He wondered if Hermione had gotten away safely. He wondered if she would forgive him for telling her to go without him. He wondered if he would ever see her again. He tried not to cry; keeping the tears back behind his slitted, swollen eyes where they stung and stung him. His entire body hurt, but his hand – the stump of his little finger – was a particularly bad pain, and throbbed in time with his pulse. He was acutely aware of it as he waited for Voldemort to finish with his father.

Yesterday – Merlin, had it only been yesterday? Yesterday, Lucius had leaped to his feet when Hermione had disapparated, horrified and terrified beyond what little reason he had left to him. He hadn't been expecting her to be able to disapparate – Draco had though. She hadn't told him that was what she needed the wand for, but what else could her plan have been? To fight their way out? Not bloody likely. His father had started screaming something about the wards, and Draco had wondered dizzily how exactly Hermione had known the wards were coming down. Fierce elation and despair had warred in his head for a brief moment, before calling a truce – he had been happy beyond belief that Hermione had escaped, but the fact that he had still been trapped laid a ton weight on his chest.

His father had started raging, ripping the cell door open and screaming for the others, too far gone to even think of coming up with a lie to save his skin – just screaming about the mudblood being gone, and yelling Draco's mother's name over and over. And then someone had come and dragged his father away, and _finited_ Draco's bindings, and slammed the door on him again. And he had sat there and gone over and over what had happened in his head. Draco had taken in the emptiness of the cell, and the patch on the rags where Hermione had always sat beside him, and he had realised he was _all alone_.

Rostan had taken him that night.

"The last time before the Dark Lord gets here – let's make this something _special, _shall we?" he had leered, and _special_ was certainly one word for it, although Draco would have thought _horrific_ and _sadistic_ certainly fitted better. He didn't know how he'd survived the last twelve hours with any of his sanity left, but somehow…he had. Unless he was completely mad now and just didn't know it. Draco hung his head, trying _not _to remember it now, because if he _remembered_ any more of last night, with Rostan, he thought he might start crying. So instead Draco pictured Hermione firmly in his mind, and listened to his father scream with a faint sense of satisfaction.

"Take him away," Voldemort said to his followers at last, the words slithering from his mouth, "And remove his little finger, please. Lucius? Lucius, can you hear me?" Voldemort glided forward over the floor, holding his wand in that delicate grip of his, and bent over Draco's father as he shuddered on the floor in a pool of his own vomit. Voldemort's pale, bare feet delicately avoided the pools as he stepped over and around Draco's father, circling him like a predator prowling about its wounded prey.

"There will be no more chances, Lucius. The next time you _fail _me…I shall not be so _merciful._" Voldemort drew the last word out, smiling his thin, lipless smile and straightening, flicking his fingers. As soon as he motioned, several Death Eaters hurried forward to seize Lucius and remove him – and themselves – from Voldemort's presence before his displeasure fell upon _them_. And then Voldemort's eyes fell on Draco, burning into him, _inside him_, and Draco jerked his head away sharply, his fringe falling over his eyes.

Terror pounded hard and sharp in his veins, but he kept his face expressionless but for a twist of his mouth at the pain aching and throbbing through him. He wouldn't let Voldemort read him, use Legilimency on him. He wouldn't. He didn't want Voldemort seeing all those private moments between him and Hermione, didn't want him tainting them by pawing through them. Draco shut his eyes and tried not to shatter apart, repressing his tears hard, a tight ball of emotion all knotted up in his chest and another clogging his throat.

"Draco…Malfoy…" Voldemort drew out slowly, and Draco hunched his shoulders and tucked his chin to his chest, eyes shut and thinking of Hermione, tensing himself for the pain he knew was sure to follow.

**# # # # # #**

Hermione catalogued in her fuzzy mind the things she noticed first when she drifted up to consciousness, from what felt like a very long sleep. There was a large, warm hand in hers, with calluses at the base of the fingers, from holding onto a broom. The ceiling was white and clean. The bed was springy and the pillow plump. She was naked under soft, warm blankets. There was a dim, warm glow suffusing the room. The pain was much less. She looked around with vague eyes. The hand wasn't Draco's. Her heart sank, stupidly, and Hermione reminded herself of what she knew. She was safe in Godric's Hollow, Ron was sitting by her bedside holding her hand, she had been healed as much as possible, and she had left Draco behind.

That was what she knew. Those were the facts.

"Hermione?" Ron said gently as she swivelled her eyes from his face back up to the ceiling without saying a word. She felt her face start to crumple.

"Hey, 'Mione…hey…" Ron tried to soothe helplessly, clasping her fingers loosely in his and stroking the back of her hand with his other hand, and Hermione kept staring unblinkingly at the ceiling, until her eyes stung from the dryness and watered over, and she had to blink. She'd left him behind. He was probably – probably dead by now. Or Voldemort was torturing him, before he killed him. Her chin quivered and her lips twisted and her eyes screwed up, and then she covered her face with her free hand as her shoulders shook, and she started to cry.

Those were the facts.

_Oh Merlin, Draco… I'm so sorry…_

"'Mione, 'Mione please, don't cry…hey, hey it's all right…" Ron said softly, obviously utterly lost and not knowing what to do or say, and saying it was _all right_ was _not _helping, because it wasn't all right. Draco was dead or dying, while Hermione lay in bed with one of her best friends at her side, safe and healed. She yanked her hand out of Ron's and hit at him, hard, and he yelped and grabbed her wrist. She made a whining, snarling noise that sounded _wrong_ in this clean, white room, and tried to jerk her wrist out of Ron's grip, glaring at him through tear-streaming eyes.

"It's _not _all right! It's _not! _Don't you _ever _say that again! Ever, ever, _ever!_" She punctuated each ever with a thwack at Ron of her free hand, until he caught that too, and then they stared at each other, both panting and wide-eyed, her wrist caught in his so that she was twisted around on the bed to face him, and he standing up from his chair to get a better hold. The sheet had dropped to her lap in their struggle, and Ron was beet red, seeming to be still trying to decide between staying or fleeing the room, but _definitely _not looking.

"It's not all right, Ron," Hermione said very, very calmly, in a small, hoarse voice. "_I left him there_. You know what that means."

Ron did know. He stared at her speechlessly for a moment, and then his hands dropped hers and his arms came up around her, crushing her into his chest, and he smelt like Muggle beer and sweat and that indefinable scent that was _Ron_. She stiffened for a split second, and then she heard his heart beating against her ear, his voice rumbling in his chest – "I'm sorry, 'Mione. I'm so bloody sorry" – and she let herself go slack against him. His voice was a familiar comfort in Hermione's ears, his hands soothing her naked back, and in the end she gave into the grief and the horror of it all, and the guilt that she was all right when _Draco wasn't _and she cried and cried until Ron's tee-shirt was saturated with her tears.

**# # # # # #**

Ginny came to the room that was the designated makeshift infirmary in the Godric's Hollow house two hours later – and an hour after she had brought Hermione a quill at her request, so she could write down everything she could remember about her and Draco's imprisonment. Hermione had only given the barest facts about the _ordeal_, focusing mostly on what the Order would need to know to rescue Draco, and then handed it off to Ginny, who had taken it down to Harry, Kingsley, and Remus, and then come back to keep her company. Hermione had insisted on getting out of bed despite Tricia's orders to rest, so Ginny had gone – under protest – to get Hermione some comfortable clean clothes. She came back in now, shutting the infirmary door behind her and holding out a bundle of Hermione's things.

"How long was I out?" Hermione asked Ginny for the sixth time, feeling small and hollow and utterly fragile as she snatched the clean clothes off the redhead and clambered achingly out of bed when Ginny turned her back. She felt like a balloon filled with too much air – one wrong sharp touch and _pop_, she would explode into little pieces. All the other times she'd asked _how long_, Ginny had distracted her, and Hermione had been fuzzy-headed enough to let her. But now she was determined to get an answer.

"How _long_, Ginny?"

"Two days," Ginny said nervously, and Hermione had to pause in dragging her knickers on when she heard that, clutching at the bed and swaying for a moment. Be calm, she told herself. Be calm – Voldemort might not have killed him yet, or might have decided not to kill him at all. Draco could still be fine. Relatively speaking. She shivered as she dragged her jersey on, thinking about him going through more of what they had been through together over the past six weeks, only alone now, without her there for him. Utterly alone. She dragged her fingers through her fluffy, clean hair, and pulled it back into a messy bun at the nape of her neck.

"It feels strange to be wearing actual _clothes_," she said to Ginny without thinking, and the redhead turned around and looked Hermione up and down with a deep sympathy that Hermione didn't like to see. She could feel herself drawing back – pulling in onto herself and shutting away from Ginny, like she was sealing a shell up around her. She had to, or she felt like she would just all spill out everywhere and go to bits.

"I know," Ginny said, very softly for Ginny, and Hermione pursed her lips up. She didn't want pity, or sympathy. She wanted to find Draco and bring him back alive. She didn't want softness or gentleness, she wanted people to strap on their wands and go and rescue Draco, before Voldemort killed him. Her breath hitched despite herself as she thought of the possibility that he was already dead.

"Hermione? Are you…?"

She lifted her chin and cleared her throat. Well, if nothing else she could bring his – his body back. Merlin that was the most awful thought she had ever had. The most awful situation she could imagine. Finding him, only to discover that he was dead and there was nothing she could do. Her hands shook as she smoothed the nonexistent wrinkles out of her jersey. She had to keep it together. She swiped away tears, taking a deep breath and then making herself smile at Ginny – except the expression felt alien and wrong on her face. And from Ginny's worried expression, it didn't look too convincing either.

"I'm fine, Ginny. Let's go downstairs. I need to talk to Remus, Kingsley, and Harry.

"Why?" Ginny asked, easily keeping pace with Hermione, who limped painfully and slowly despite her hurry, her broken ankle having been reset when she'd first arrived at Godric's, and not quite knitted fully back together yet. Her side ached, and she still felt trembly from the _Cruciatus_ and half-starvation, and her head felt all torn to little shreds of parchment that floated on the breeze. It was hard just to concentrate, with all the doors, and the brightness, and the space and people and… Hermione focused on the floor, on where she put her feet, trying to ignore Ginny as she hovered anxiously behind Hermione.

She took the stairs slowly, and eased herself onto a chair in the dining room with a sigh of relief at being off her feet, and with her settled safely, Ginny went off to yell for the others. Mrs Weasley brought Hermione a cup of tea that she thanked her for even though she wasn't thirsty, and she sipped at absently, staring at the table as she waited.

"Hermione?" Harry's voice was worried.

"Hmm?"

"What – what're you doing?"

She glanced up at him, eyes curiously defocused – they still weren't adjusting to all the light for some reason. "Drinking tea," she said, as if he were an idiot, and he shook his head, dark brows all crinkled together, flapping his hand nervously at the side of her head. "No, _that_. What're you…?"

She realised suddenly and dropped her hand from her head like she'd burnt it, staring down at the strands of hair that littered the table. She'd been plucking her hair out like she had in the cell, and she hadn't even _known_ she was doing it. Her cheeks went hot.

"Nothing," she said quickly, burying her face in her tea cup, and Harry eyed her and seemed about to prod and probe and ask questions she _didn't_ want to answer, when Remus and Kingsley came in.

"Hermione – you're looking…better," Remus said diplomatically and with a gentle smile, which Hermione didn't mind, because that was how he always smiled at everyone. She put her tea cup carefully on the table, hands trembling faintly, but she'd drank enough that the tea didn't slosh over.

"How do you feel?" Kingsley asked cautiously, and Hermione shrugged.

"I'm healed. I'm…I'm fine." She looked sharply at the three men. "But Draco isn't."

"Shit…" Harry said, sitting down heavily and rubbing his hand over his forehead, as if he'd been expecting this and dreading it. Hermione's chin quivered. "And what does _that_ mean, Harry?"

"You're not going to react well however I put it, so I'm just going to say it," Harry said, and Hermione forced herself to stay calm, staring at Harry blankly. "We read your…report…talked it over, and…we're not going in after Malfoy. We can't afford to."

Her tea cup hit Harry in the shoulder hard enough to shatter just as he finished speaking, and he jolted and winced and pulled the scalding, wet fabric of his shirt away from his skin as bits of china rained to the ground. "Hermione…" he began placatingly, and she shoved her chair back with a squeal of the legs. "No!" she shouted, aiming her finger at him and _shaking_. "No. No, you don't get to say _Hermione_ like _that_ when you've just told me you're leaving Draco there to be tortured and – and _killed_ and…you won't even _try _to save him."

"Hermione, please. I understand," Remus began and Hermione opened her mouth to yell at him but realised that wouldn't help, so she sat back down in the chair with a thump, knotting her hands in her lap and saying, "No you don't. You don't understand at all, Remus."

She looked up at each of the three men's faces, and saw that they wouldn't allow her to change their minds – they had decided, and she would just have to wear it. She hated their sympathy, right then. She hated it more than anything, because if they really cared at all, they would get Draco back. She tried to convince them, despite knowing it was a losing battle before she'd even begun. In the end she resorted to a frayed and furious, "If it was _me_ you'd go in for me! If it was _me_ you would – I know it! Hasn't Draco fought for us, for our side, long enough? Hasn't he risked his life and gotten injured enough to prove himself? He's one of _us_, you can't just _leave _him!"

"I know this might be hard to hear, Hermione," Remus began, and Hermione made a harsh, derisive sound at the back of her throat. "But even if it were you still imprisoned there, and Draco who had gotten out, we probably wouldn't have attempted a rescue. For starters, the anti-apparition wards _will_ be back up by now and we wouldn't be able to apparate in, so we'd have to figure out where the location could be from your limited description – the cell, the hallway, the torture room. It could be anywhere large with a cellar. There are too many Death Eaters stationed there from what you've said, too many –"

"We can find a way! We can!"

"And then there's the fact that…Voldemort has probably already killed him, Hermione. I'm so sorry, I'm so, so sorry to be so harsh, but –"

She went red as Remus said that. "You _would _go in if it were me; you _would_, even _if_ you thought I was probably dead!"

"No, we wouldn't have," Kingsley said in a horribly kind voice for the words he spoke which weren't kind at all, they were _cruel_, and Hermione balled up her fists and resisted the urge to scream.

"I would've gone in after her," Ron's voice came from the doorway, and Hermione flashed a look at him, his brows drawn down and blue eyes thoughtful. "And you would've too, Harry. We both know that we would've tried."

"Malfoy's not Hermione, Ron," Harry said, and Hermione stumbled to her feet, feeling like Harry had just spat in her face. "You – you – you _honestly didn't just say that!_" If she'd had a wand she would have hexed him where he stood for that. Draco was probably – _possibly, _she told herself, _possibly _– dead, and Harry was just writing him off without another thought.

"Well he's _not_ you, Hermione! I'm sorry, that came out wrong from how I meant it to sound, but – but _I would die for you, Hermione_, but I'd be _lying_ if I told you I was willing to die for Malfoy! I like the bloke well enough, and I'm sorry that he's –"

"_He's not dead!_"

"That he's still _captured_, then, but I'm not going to throw myself into some suicidal mission for his sake! I would for you, because you're…you…but…"

Hermione nodded numbly, feeling all cold and shivery, staring at Harry – his shirt all wet down one side, and shards of china tea cup still clinging to it, his hair utterly dishevelled, and his eyes pleading with her to understand.

"Fine. Fine, Harry." She looked to Ron hopelessly, but asked the question anyway. "Ron?"

He spread his hands helplessly. "I just got married, Hermione…I'm sorry but I'm not…I can't…Harry's right," he finished lamely, looking like he wanted to sink into the floor.

Hermione nodded her head briskly, tears stinging behind her eyes and her palms clammy, heart thudding, everything seeming very odd and dreamlike, even the anger she felt. "All right then. Well, that's settled, I suppose."

They all four of them looked at her suspiciously, nervous of her sudden, eerie calm. She turned her head to Harry, feeling like some sort of robot, all cogs and wheels and electronics and oil and circuits; not human at all. "I need to speak to you in private, Harry," she said, thinking about Snape and his message for Harry, because no matter how much she wanted to _murder_ him right now, it was important for Harry to know Snape was on their side. She didn't think she'd tell him about Snape's instructions to _Obliviate_ her though; she didn't think she trusted Harry near her mind right now.

**# # # # # #**

After she had told Harry about Snape, Hermione had gone down to the cellar and found it empty of everything but Draco's things, and she assumed Karkaroff, Viktor, and the others must have been transferred to another safehouse. She didn't bother going back upstairs and asking anyone about it – it didn't really matter, after all. She tugged Draco's bed, table, two chairs, and dresser back to where they had been when they'd first been moved downstairs for Draco, sweating and panting by the time she was finished, ankle aching fiercely. She was still so weak, and every single one of her muscles burnt with soreness.

When she was done, Hermione stared around at the cellar; just how it had been before – before everything had happened. Except Draco wasn't here. She sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling lost, staring at the wall.

It still just didn't seem right. Hermione fumbled around in the dresser and found the Scrabble board, and set it up on the table ready to play. She pulled one of Draco's shirts out of the dresser and pulled off her jersey, shrugging his shirt on over her head. She thought she could still smell a trace of his scent beneath the crisp, soapy smell of the washing powder. She smelt his pillow and it smelt like someone else – Pansy – and she frowned and flipped it over, smelt the other side. _That _smelled like Draco. She smiled to herself and crawled into the bed, buried her face into the side of the pillow that smelled like him, and tried to think about nothing at all.

She spent seven days down there without stepping foot on the stairs once.

Harry, Ron, Ginny, Molly…they all came down at some point, under the excuse of bringing her food, but really to gently hint at her to come back upstairs. Hermione avoided their hints every time, or changed the subject. Refused to talk. Generally just ignored them. She found she kept up the habits she'd fallen into in the cell, with Draco. She sat and stared at nothing. She plucked out her hair. She counted her scars, not having let Tricia remove them yet – they were, in a sick sort of way, a memory of Draco. She had a bite on her shoulder that had scarred, and she was almost _positive_ it was one Draco had left there, on a night he'd been particularly angry and rough, and she constantly found herself absently rubbing her fingers over it, remembering that night.

He was everywhere – in the faint traces of scent clinging to the bed and his clothes, in the _Scrabble_ and _Risk_ games that she set up on the table and fiddled with, _remembering_. He was in the books all lined up on top of the dresser – all ones that she had given to him, dog-eared from multiple readings. Hermione could tell that _The Godfather_ had been his favourite from the fact that it was more worn than the others, and it made her smile that _that _had been Draco's favourite Muggle book. He was – yes he _was_ – even in her scars, because she realised on the second night, with a little jolt, that he'd been present for every scar that she had acquired since the start of the war, and that seemed right, somehow. He was everywhere, surrounding her. And yet he was gone, too, and she was completely alone.

On the seventh day in the cellar, Hermione was sitting on the bed reading _The Godfather_ – even though she wasn't really that keen on it – when Harry and Ron came down together, looking determined about something. She thought she could guess what. Hermione placed a bookmark in her place, and laid the book down gently. She was reading it carefully and thoroughly, instead of skimming through quickly like she often did with books she wasn't that interested in – she wanted to see if she could figure out all the things that would have made it appeal to Draco so much. She wanted to know if she knew him well enough to pick them out – or if maybe just reading it and knowing he had liked it would reveal more of him to her. So far she wasn't sure if it was working.

"Hermione…?" Harry asked cautiously, and she shot him a narrow-eyed look; she still hadn't forgiven him for what he'd said about Draco.

"_What_, Harry?" she asked him briskly, a note of pique in her voice, trying to sound like ordinary old Hermione Granger being ticked off at her best friend Harry Potter, and, she thought, succeeding. She sounded almost _normal_.

"Can we…sit down?"

"If you like," she said, staring hard at the pair of them, swivelling on the bed so she sat cross-legged by the edge facing them, each boy – although really they were men now, she thought, Harry and Ron would always be her boys – taking a seat at the table. Ron eyed the _Risk_ game she'd set up with a half-nervous curiosity, and picked up a little plastic cannon.

"Don't touch it!" Hermione snapped with an edge of panic before she could stop herself, leaning forward and flinging her arm out, and nearly falling off the bed. When she had regained her position, Harry raised an eyebrow at her as Ron carefully put the piece back where he'd found it, on Australia. Well, maybe _that_ wasn't quiteso normal. She bit her lip and shifted nervously. "Sorry, Ron…I just have it set up a particular way, and…"

"'S fine, 'Mione," Ron shrugged and grinned at her, a little tightly, and Hermione twisted her hands up in the hem of Draco's long-sleeved tee-shirt, which reached mid thigh and had to have the sleeves rolled up or they hung down over her fingertips. She looked washed out in charcoal grey, and it didn't smell like him anymore, but it was still _his_ so she wore it anyway.

"So…what brings you down here…?" she asked at last, to break the silence, and Harry and Ron exchanged a look and she frowned at their silent communication. She could see what they were doing. What, did they think she was stupid?

"We…think, well…why don't you come upstairs for dinner tonight? Mum cooked a roast, 'specially, and –"

"No thank you, Ron."

"But Neville's coming, and he wants to see you!" Ron tried wheedling; looking at her hopefully, but Hermione shook her head hard. "If Neville wants to see me, then he can just come down here."

"'Mione, you've been down here seven bloody days now! You can't just hide in the cellar forever!" Ron burst out in a strained tone, losing patience with her, and Hermione looked away from him.

"It's not normal, Hermione." Harry added gently. "You're not coping. You need…"

"What, Harry? What do I need?" Hermione snapped at him when he trailed off, and he shrugged limply, looking like he regretted saying anything. "Help. You need some help. You're not coping, Hermione. You're worrying us. We're _worried_ about you – we want to help, and be here for you, but you won't _let_ us."

"I'm coping fine," she told him blankly, and he gave her a steady stare. "No you're not."

"Yes I am!"

"You're doing the hair thing again…" Ron pointed out wearily, and Hermione glared at him, furious at him for pointing it out right now, and at herself for forgetting herself enough to do it in front of them. She scowled at the single plucked hair, holding out her hand and wriggling her fingers, letting the strand she'd yanked out float slowly free to the cellar floor.

"Okay. So maybe I'm not coping that well," she admitted, and saw Harry's shoulders slump with relief as he smiled encouragingly at her. "But it's only been a week! I was locked up and – and _tortured_ for six weeks, and Draco's still there and none of you are willing to try to rescue him! How am I supposed to cope with _that? _"

"Hermione. Hermione…" Harry gave her a very gentle look and she bunched up her fist, knowing what was coming, and hating Harry for it, for all that he was probably – _possibly – _right. "It's been a week…you said that the Death Eaters were talking about Voldemort wanting to make an example of him. You left him with Lucius about to –"

"_He made me go!_" she gasped shrilly, unable to let that slide, her heart suddenly juddering in her chest as sick guilt washed over her, jabbing her finger at Harry, and he held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "All right, all right. Sorry, Hermione. When he told you to go, Lucius was about to kill him. I – I hate this, I hate it because of how much it hurts you, but…Malfoy's dead. Draco's dead, Hermione. You have to accept that if you want to move on. You're clinging onto shreds of the past, and you're losing yourself in it. You're my best friend! I don't want to see you wither away your life in some dank old cellar – and Draco would want that either."

"Don't you dare tell me what he would have wanted! You don't know! And you don't know that he's dead either! It might be – might be pr-pr-probable, but there's a chance that he isn't." She stared Harry down. "There's a _chance_."

"Fair enough. There's a chance," Ron repeated. "But staying down here in the cellar won't bring him back whether he's…gone…or still a prisoner. It's only hurting you, and worrying us."

Hermione nodded, her fingers absently shoving down the neck of Draco's shirt to trace the bite mark she was almost _positive_ was his. She saw Harry and Ron watching and swapping worried looks, but she tried to ignore them and be calm, and not hurl her book at Harry or beat Ron over the head with the _Risk_ box. She nodded again. Picked up her book and opened it to page 183, and took out the bookmark, laid it neatly next to her on the bed, and started to read. They tried to bother her a little longer – calling her name, bending down in front of her, and in Ron's case, swearing at her in worried annoyance – _at least fucking look at me, 'Mione! Merlin's balls, you're bloody impossible! _

Hermione just ignored them though and eventually they gave up and went away, and she kept reading.

**# # # # # #**

"If you feel better down here, then stay. Why not? You wouldn't be allowed out on active duty yet anyway so you've got no real reason to leave, so…if you feel…close to him here, then I don't see what's wrong with it, Hermione," Neville said, and Hermione smiled at him weakly, topping up her glass with the bottle of firewhiskey Neville had smuggled down to her – he hadn't thought anyone would approve of her drinking, right now; and he'd told her matter-of-factly that he wasn't going to leave her with the bottle. She hadn't been able to resent him for that, not with the earnest, honest way he'd said it. There was something about Neville that was very soothing.

"Well, I'm glad someone doesn't think I'm mad," she said with a trace of bitterness, sighing as the firewhiskey slid down her throat with that hot burn.

"I didn't say _that_." Neville grinned at her teasingly and shrugged a shoulder, half-joking and half-truthful. "Honestly I'd think you couldn't avoid being a little mad after what you've been through, Hermione. But I don't think wanting to be down here is mad, no. I think it's pretty normal."

"Thank you, Neville," she nodded at him, swirling the firewhiskey in her glass and remembering all the times she'd drunk with Draco. She wondered if she ever would again. Hermione drifted; got lost in her thoughts for a while, and pulled herself out of them to find Neville still sitting there across the table patiently, watching her and sipping at his drink and she had _no idea_ how much time had passed. It was like she just went blank – zoned out in her own head, and it frightened her a little. "Sorry, I – I was just thinking."

"That's all right."

"About Draco," she admitted in a small voice, and Neville eyed her softly. "He – was a good guy in the end. Still a bit of a prat, I s'pose, but all right."

"Everyone always talks about him like he's dead," Hermione said in a choked tone, fingers tightening on her glass of firewhiskey. She stared into its depths and then swilled it all back at once, topped herself up again, starting to feel warm and a little tingly. Neville looked stricken.

"I'm sorry – I didn't mean to – I just… I – Harry and Ron and everyone else were talking about it like…and I…"

"I know. It's fine, Neville. I'm getting used to it."

"But you don't think he's dead."

"I – I don't know. I can't. I can't think he's… _I don't know_." Hermione broke off, feeling a lump form in her throat as she thought about it. _Merlin_. Draco – he couldn't be dead. He couldn't be. "I just can't. Maybe if I saw his body, then I might – I mean, then I'd _have_ to believe it. But until then…no. He could be alive. He _could._ And everyone's just written him off, and are all acting like he's dead and buried and I should be getting over it by now!" Her voice rose and wavered. "It's only been a week, Neville! It's only been a fucking _week_ and they're essentially telling me to _get over it!_"

There was a long silence.

"They're worried, Hermione. That's all. They're worried and they want to reach out to you and support you, and it scares them because you're pushing them away. But that's okay – sometimes people find it easier to deal with things alone. You know what I think?" Neville offered, and Hermione smiled at the hopeful-helpful tone to his words as he leant forward and looked at her earnestly over the _Scrabble_ board she'd set up that afternoon in place of the carefully laid out _Risk_, which hadn't seemed _right_ after Ron had mucked with it.

"What do you think, Neville?" she asked obediently, and he nodded at her, gesticulating with his glass of firewhiskey as he spoke, sweeping and jabbing it through the air and nearly sloshing it over the rim. "_I_ think that it's not Draco being…_missing_…that you need to _get over_. It's the imprisonment, the torture. Not – not that I'm just saying 'get over it' or anything; I mean…that's what you need to learn to cope with – the after-effects of _that_. If you feel more comfortable with Draco's things around you, then sure, sleep down here. But from what I've heard, you won't go into bright light, you're…pulling at your hair and –"

"They told you that?" Hermione asked, flushing red with humiliation and anger, and Neville shrugged, looked a little uneasy.

"I heard it mentioned out of concern…not –"

"By who?"

"– and does it really matter who I heard? Because the fact is –"

"Was it Harry? Because –"

"– Didn't have to tell me –"

"– Swear to god I'm _fed up_ with his –"

"– You're doing it right now!"

"Oh." Hermione dropped her hand from her head and bit her lip, swearing at herself on the inside for bloody well doing it again. _Again_. _Damnit_. She couldn't seem to _stop_ herself. "Well. Maybe you have a point. _Maybe_."

"Just think about it, Hermione. Okay, Draco's missing – that's…awful. And all right, so you've been through a lot of trauma, and that's horrible too. But you have to keep living life, Hermione – you can't just give up, because then you may as well just lay down and die, and I _know_ you – you'd never do that!"

Hermione looked down at the table, the glass sitting there in her tight grip, feeling suddenly a little embarrassed by Neville's heartfelt speech, and blushing with it. "No. I guess I wouldn't, would I? It's just…" She trailed off and he patted her wrist. "I know. You'll be okay in the end. These things just take time."

"Yeah. Time… Th–thanks, Neville. I actually…feel a little better now."

"Is it me, or the four drinks of firewhiskey you've downed since I've been down here?" he asked mischievously, and startled an actual laugh out of Hermione, to her own surprise.

"Both," she said decidedly, and grinned at him, and it was true – she felt all warm and glowy inside right now, and it was thanks to both the burn of the firewhiskey, _and_ Neville's company. She glanced down at the table. "Would – would you like a game of _Scrabble_?" she offered hesitantly, feeling like offering was taking a willing leap off the edge of a cliff, and Neville stared down at the board, and then smiled up at her willingly. "Sure. I've _no_ idea how on earth to play it, but if you wanted to teach me, I'm game…"

**# # # # # #**

_**Six Days Earlier**_

"Draco…Malfoy…" Voldemort drew out slowly, and Draco tensed, preparing himself for the pain to come, shoulders hunching and muscles tautening, head hanging down and eyes squeezing shut. The silence ticked out over long seconds, and no pain came; just the sound of Voldemort's bare feet circling Draco's kneeling form slowly. He tried to remember to _breathe_ before he passed out from lack of air, but it felt like the room itself was _airless_, like Voldemort's presence created a vacuum, and he couldn't _breathe,_ and when he finally _did _gasp in a lungful of air it sounded loud and panicked in the silence. Fuck. Fuck he couldn't deal with this – not now after everything that had happened. But he didn't have much fucking choice, did he?

"Voldemort," he said, breaking the silence, and heard the collective gasp of the Death Eaters who remained, and the sound of sliding skin on stone as Voldemort spun around. Something jabbed right between his eyes – Voldemort's wand point – and forced Draco's head up. Voldemort stared down at him as Draco opened his eyes, a cold, arrogant sense of offence burning in Voldemort's gaze.

'You will address me, as, _my Lord_," Voldemort said carefully, and Draco clenched his jaw and steeled himself. Turned his head and spat on the floor by Voldemort's foot; red-tinged saliva, and then it was too late to take it back.

"You aren't _my lord_ anymore," he grated out hoarsely, eyes flicking to Voldemort's and then away again, thinking of Hermione, and of always having choices, even if they weren't good ones. Thinking of how she would have died before serving Voldemort, before grovelling to him, and how Draco hadn't. Not the last time. But now he had a choice. Not a good one, but sometimes there _were_ no good ones. But there _were_ right ones, and wrong ones.

Besides, Voldemort wasn't likely to want Draco back again after his failure and betrayal, so maybe he could provoke Voldemort into killing him quickly. Then again, maybe Draco's insolence would just provoke him into stringing his torture out over weeks instead of days. Either way, it was done now. No taking it back.

"Am I not?" Voldemort asked, high and thin and filled with a dreadful power that made Draco's stomach turn and clench with terror. "Am I not, Draco? You would spurn me? Turn away from _me?_ You would _dare _to do that?"

Draco stared up at him; met those eyes in that inhuman face, and smirked. "That's what I said."

Voldemort stepped back lightly, quickly, head canting to one side as he studied Draco like he was some strange type of insect Voldemort knew nothing about – beneath the wizard, powerless to hurt him, and yet still intriguing.

"Perhaps…" Voldemort said, turning away and walking around Draco once more, stopping in front of him again and sliding his wand around so it aimed not a foot from Draco's head. "Perhaps you have more _spine_ than I thought, boy. You have…_developed_…" He said the word like he was tasting a fine _Meershoch_ over his tongue – rolling and drawn out. A cat playing with a mouse.

Draco waited silently for the Killing Curse to come, or the Cruciatus, trying to think only of Hermione and not the agony or death awaiting him, Voldemort's words washing over him without meaning or purpose. He wondered if it had been worth it; falling for her, now that it meant he was likely going to die instead of turn traitor to the Order, or beg and plead like he would have before. Her Gryffindor idiocy must have seeped into his head more than he'd thought, because fuck, Draco thought it was worth it.

"Perhaps…perhaps I may as well put you to use, hmm?" Voldemort's voice came, slithering like a snake's in Draco's ears, sinuous and insinuating and _dangerous_. "Make an _example_ out of you…"

Draco looked up at Voldemort, grey eyes wide, and at last, openly frightened. His thoughts of Hermione fell away from him, and then it was just him, him alone. _Alone._ He thought that maybe everyone was alone when they died, even when they weren't they still were, in the very end. His last traces of hope, of any comfort to get him through what was to come, until the end…they all vanished like vapour – ephemeral, unreal. _Nothing. Useless. _It wasn't fucking _fair._

He was only fucking eighteen, and had been tortured more than half-to-death – he was unarmed and bound, on his knees in front of Voldemort, and _he didn't want to die_ – no, he wasn't _that_ fucking noble that he took delight in the thought of self-sacrifice and martyrdom. But when Draco looked up into Voldemort's eyes and saw the cruel, gleeful, malice there, he thought that maybe he just wanted it to be _over_. Wanted it to not hurt too much, when it happened. Maybe that would be best.

Then there was a sound – a word, and then a flash of magic, and then Draco looked up from his knees at the Dark Lord as his bonds fell away from him, and inside his head, he screamed and screamed and screamed.

**# # # # # #**

**Author's Note: **Well, that chapter wasn't exactly _happy,_ but it was a lot less awful than the last few, I reckon, and I'm really quite pleased with how it turned out – especially considering how quickly I wrote it!

It was really fun writing Hermione's interacting solely with the others instead of with Draco, and also it was enjoyable writing her as sort of dream-like – not quite with it, still traumatised, not yet fitting into the world again. I tried to give it a realistic feel, and portray an actual likely reaction, so I hope you like how I did it :)

I also actually do think that Harry, Kingsley and Remus made the right call in not going after Draco, from their perspectives, and that there really was no easy way they could break that news to her. They wanted Hermione to really accept the situation and no be in denial, so that she can process it and move past it, so they had to be blunt. They were being a bit brutal and harsh with it, but not out of any cruelty or malice – they're worried about her, and are just trying to help her.

And…ten galleons each for the people who can guess what Voldemort did to Draco…


	9. Sip of Something Poisoned

**Author's Note: **Thank you so much to everyone for reviewing! I appreciate your feedback immensely – it's helped shape this chapter quite a bit, in the end. A special thank you to _einna16_,whose excellent idea I have used :) I've written my own take on the _Imperius _this chapter, which, from what I know, is _somewhat_ different to canon – or perhaps not so much _different_, as just showing the _Imperius_ as something a little bit more nuanced in nature.

**Trigger Warnings for graphic violence, and mentions of rape and torture.**

_Abandon hope, all ye who enter here._

**# # # # # #**

_**6. Sip of Something Poisoned**_

_You know those days when you want to just choose_

_To not get out of bed, you're lost in your head again._

_You play the game but you kind of cut_

'_Cause you're coming down hard and your joints are all stuck._

_I tried to say that's not the only way_

_I never knew if I could face myself to change._

_You were pacing, I was insecure._

_Slip and fall, I got the calls from the prison I've been living in_

_[Helena Beat, FOSTER THE PEOPLE]_

**# # # # # #**

He dreams of her, and in his dreams, she is happy, and she smiles at him – walks towards him and says his name with so much relief and joy it hurts to hear, and he smiles back at her and says,

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

**# # # # # #**

Neville came to visit her every few days over the next week, and of everyone he was the only person not constantly trying to persuade Hermione to come upstairs. He talked fondly about Luna, and rambled about old – happy – school memories, and sometimes Hermione even talked about Draco to him. They played _Scrabble_ a lot, because unlike Draco, Neville _loved _the game, and he'd sit there in his button-down cardigan with his hair combed neatly, sucking air through his teeth as he tried to think of a word, and Hermione thought he looked rather ridiculously and sweetly like an old man. All he needed to complete the image was a blackball or smoker sweet to suck, and a pair of cosy slippers. It was nice, spending time with him. Hermione never felt pressured or tense around Neville – he was just _Neville._

Nearly two weeks after Hermione had escaped, Neville told her excitedly that the Room of Requirement had started working again – albeit not as well as before, as it was still healing from the Fiendfyre. But still, it was usable now. He was to be stationed there again, and the Order was working towards taking over Hogwarts by force, attacking from the Room – they hoped that successfully taking control of Hogwarts would force Voldemort's hand, and make him come out for a final, decisive battle. Hermione thought it was as good a plan as any, but her mind wasn't really on the war right now, and Remus had told her, rather firmly, to take her time before getting back into the fight, which suited her quite well. She knew she couldn't hide away forever, but she just needed a _little_ more time.

Things were still strained between Hermione, Harry, and Ron – especially her and Harry, although he'd apologised repeatedly for _putting it that way_ when he'd said they wouldn't be going in after Draco. Hermione recognised now that they hadn't had much choice; she didn't know anything about the place except the cell, hallway, the room they were tortured in, and the room they were healed in, and with the anti-apparition wards back up they would have been fatally splinched if they'd tried to apparate in, so there hadn't been anything they could do immediately, except for keep searching for the right house. But Harry _hadn't_ had to put it that way. He hadn't had to be so horribly harsh about it – she would've accepted the facts if he'd said them kindly. _Probably_. At any rate, Hermione was still angry with him, and worse, _disappointed_. Mistrusting. She'd never felt like this towards Harry before, and it was an extremely unpleasant feeling.

"How am I supposed to _trust_ you, Harry?" she yelled at him one evening when he'd brought her dinner down and started nagging at her not to please not be angry at him anymore. "_How_ – I've always stuck by you. I've always been willing to do _anything _for you. _Anything_. And the one time – the _one time _– that I need something from you, you don't just refuse it, you refuse it like _that_," she tried to explain furiously, brushing the tears from her eyes that she hated herself for crying because it made her look hysterical and she _wasn't – _she was _angry_.

"I'm _sorry_, Hermione, and I wish that I – we – could have, but we couldn't. We _couldn't_," Harry just said helplessly, missing half her bloody point, and she shook her head angrily, not accepting that.

"Even if you feel that you had to refuse – and I don't agree with that – you still didn't have to shove it down my throat like that, Harry! You didn't have to be so _cruel_ about it."

"And how would I have been _kind?_" Harry was as distressed and angry as she'd ever seen him be, scrubbing his hands through his hair and staring wild-eyed and pleading at her, begging her to understand. "How could I have put the fact that we weren't going to go rescue the man you love _kindly?_ Because shit, Hermione, I'm _sorry_, I'm so fucking sorry, but I don't think there's any _kind_ way to put that."

Harry was right about _that_ much, but Hermione didn't care – because she would have gone with Harry to get Ginny. She would have helped him find the place, and then she would have helped him rescue Ginny, even if she thought it meant her probable death. Because that was just how much she loved Harry. Because they were best friends, and she was _loyal_. She didn't care that it could be the war at stake, because now that she'd lost him, Hermione had realised that Draco meant far more to her than even the war. She knew they had to win – that winning was the only option, logically. That it _had_ to happen, because if Voldemort won, all would be lost. But in the end, whether they won or lost…Hermione couldn't bring herself to _care_ that much anymore. What _would_ affect her was knowing she'd left Draco to die, and knowing that none of her friends had been willing to even _try _to help her save him.

Ron was a little easier to be around, and his hugs were still the best thing available to sink into when she was feeling utterly miserable and teary, just so long as he kept his mouth shut so he couldn't shove his foot in it. Tonks brought little Teddy down sometimes for a cuddle, which was lovely even if it did make Hermione's heart twinge. And Cho and Ginny came down several times, and tried very, very hard to act normally – mostly failing, but Hermione appreciated that they tried.

A week after Hermione's return, Luna kindly contacted Mr Olivander, and asked him to make Hermione another wand – he'd agreed, and said it would be ready within a month, and she was immensely relieved about that. The Order hadn't given her a spare wand to borrow, and Hermione wasn't sure if it was because they just didn't think she needed one being as she was in the cellar all the time, and not out on missions, or if they didn't think they had a spare one that would work for her – or, if it was because they didn't _trust_ her with one. But whatever their reasons, they couldn't stop Olivander making her one, even if they wanted to because they didn't trust her stability. She had every right to a wand – and she would _need _one. She wasn't planning on sitting in the cellar forever. Hermione didn't know if Remus, Harry or Kingsley would want to let her, but she wanted to be involved in the assault on Hogwarts.

As she explained rather irritably to Harry, not wanting to come out of the cellar right now did _not _mean she wasn't fit for battle, it just meant she liked the cellar better than the rest of the house and had no reason to come out yet. And that _no_, all her other strange little habits and ticks didn't make her unfit _either_. She would cope fine in battle, she swore it to him, but he looked at her doubtfully and _oh_, she was so angry with him for that. If any one of the two of them had reason to doubt the other, it was Hermione who reason to doubt _Harry_. But she crushed down her anger and just assured him calmly that she would be fine, when the time came. If anything, having abandoned Draco to the Death Eaters just made Hermione more determined to fight, for a myriad of reasons she tried not to examine too closely because it hurt.

She also tried not to think too much about Draco after the first week back at Godric's – not consciously, anyway, although he was always lingering at the back of her mind and she couldn't _help_ him drifting over her thoughts. Like a ghost. But she flatly _refused_ to think about whether he was more likely to be dead or alive – as far as Hermione was concerned, Draco was _missing in action_, and that was all they knew. She refused to speculate. She refused to let people talk about him in the past tense, or comfort her by saying at least she had her memories, or anything else that meant they thought he was dead. As long as Hermione hadn't seen a body, she was going to hold out hope. Because she had to. Because there wasn't any other choice.

**# # # # # #**

_**Interlude**_

She dreamed of him nearly every night; dressed in his shirt and face buried in his pillow, he surrounded her even in her sleep, and the dreams were always so painfully real. They were so believable; a muddled melding of memory and fantasy, which she loved and hated at once.

"_Scrabble?" She holds up the box from the stack on the table, looking hopefully at him._

"_No. Please, Merlin, __**no**__. You know I hate that fucking boring game. It's like a slow, painful death, only without the actual death to look forward to, to end it all."_

"_You just don't like that you always lose to me," she smirks at him, trying to imitate his trademark expression,. "You're a sore loser, Draco Malfoy."_

_He rolls his eyes at her, leans back in his chair and his feet bump and rub against hers casually under the table. A thrill goes up and down her spine and ends up pooling as shivering, melting warmth in her abdomen._

"_Only because you won't let me use any of the good words, like 'tits' or 'arse' or 'fuck' or –" he says with an obscene expression on his handsome, arrogant face, and she glares and points at him._

"_Illegal words, Draco! Not allowed!"_

"_You're so stuck on the rules. You have to follow everything to the letter, even when there's no real reason to. What'd be wrong with using a few dirty words, hmm?" His lips purse and then curl up faintly at the corners. "It might even be fun…"_

"_You're a filthy git," she tells him, but she's smiling, and her toes brush against his ankle under the table. "__**Fine**__. Let's play Risk, then."_

_He grins. It's a sudden, __**real**__ grin, lopsided and oddly adorable, and makes him look younger – or rather, look his age – and it's aimed at her, and her stomach does silly little flips of excitement. She pokes out her tongue at him in reaction to the flips, but he just arches an eyebrow in amused response, and the melting shivers get worse._

Hermione woke just before dream-Draco leant over the table to kiss her, to find the pillow damp with her tears and her throat all choked up and her nose snotty. She gasped and swore, and scrubbed at her face with a handful of tissues dragged out of the box she kept by the bed these days, for times like this. She blew her nose and lay back, and drew deep, slow breaths and tried to think about nothing until her heart rate slowed and sleep was within her grasp again. On nights like this when the dreams were so damned _clear_ she often considered asking Tricia Fideloff for a Dreamless Sleep potion, telling herself it would be the sensible thing to do…but in the end, she never did.

**# # # # # #**

_**Two Weeks Post-Escape**_

"You may go to your room and rest now," Voldemort said coldly, smiling at Draco; a relatively satisfied expression, and Draco inclined his head obediently.

"Yes, my lord," he said stiffly but with respect, and sheathed his wand; stepping heavily over the unconscious body of the man he'd just been torturing without a second glance. Draco's shoes slipped slightly on the blood that pooled on the floor around the man, and he gritted his teeth, feeling worn down and exhausted, his mind half-blurred and foggy from the Imperius and the torture. It was just past midnight, and Draco had spent all night carefully and thoroughly torturing a Muggle in order to satisfy Voldemort the renewed Imperius Curse was still working. This was the fourth time in two weeks that Voldemort had felt it necessary to renew the Curse on Draco. This time, several hours of torture had been inflicted on Draco first, to wear down his mental resistance.

As a result, Draco was limping and aching all over, his hands shaking and his throat raw from screaming. Unfortunately, it seemed that while Draco had enough mental resistance to be aware of the Imperius, and _attempt_ to resist it enough to draw Voldemort's displeasure onto himself, he was unable to throw off the Curse completely. Which was just his fucking luck, wasn't it? He was still – _mostly _– Voldemort's puppet; he was just acutely aware of that fact, most of the time, and could struggle and _fail_ to resist. Over the past fortnight he'd had many an occasion to think it would have been easier if he'd just been completely overwhelmed by Voldemort's will. But each time Voldemort had recast the Curse, Draco found himself fighting it instead of just giving in. Easier wasn't better, he repeated in his head, picturing Hermione and her disappointment in him if he just gave in.

He walked the familiar hallways of his ancestral home, winding his way to his tiny room, and he noticed again that the manor no longer held any trace of _home_ for him. It was just another prison cell, any happy memories that lingered long since tainted and faded to irrelevancy.

"_Hello_, Malfoy. Fancy seeing you here…"

Draco spun in the hallway and his hand went to his wand, eyes sharp and hateful on Rostan. "Don't _speak_ to me," he hissed, heart racing as he stared the filthy bastard down and _remembered_. He felt sick. He felt like vomiting all over the floor, and only the need to keep himself together – and not let the bastard see how much he'd hurt Draco – kept him from doing so. He clamped his lips together and breathed hard out through his nose, wand ready, so fucking glad that he was armed because if he wasn't he'd have been buggered. His lips curled up humourlessly as his mental word choice registered, and Rostan bared his teeth.

"I'll do whatever the hell I _want_ to you, Malfoy. You aren't even an actual loyal servant of the Dark Lord, just some pathetic puppet – you've got no standing here. No _rights_. The Dark Lord isn't going to protect you from me, or care if I have some more fun with you." Rostan licked his lips and leered. "It's been a while, hasn't it Malfoy? Have you missed me?"

Draco just stared at the man blankly, refusing to be baited and choking down bile as he tried to compose himself. And then he went to move past Rostan and the Death Eater side-stepped, blocked Draco's path. "I didn't say you could go, traitor."

"V – the Dark Lord –" Merlin, Draco _hated _the compulsion that forced him to address Voldemort that way aloud, but it wasn't worth the effort it took to fight it. "Has not informed me I'm to do your bidding, you spineless, sadistic piece of shit. So get the _fuck_ out of my way before I move you myself, Rostan." His voice barely shook at all, and his eyes were slitted as he watched the other man carefully for any sign of attack, trying to repress the trembling of his hands from the torture and strain.

"Make me, Malfoy," Rostan grinned, and before he'd finished speaking Draco sent a bone-breaking hex flashing at him that Rostan dodged, drawing his own wand with a sneer. "Oh, you _know_ how much I like it when you fight me, Malfoy."

Draco gritted his teeth and ducked a _crucio_, sent one of his own lashing back, limping on his feet heavily as he twisted to avoid a stunner, and threw up a shield that blocked a particularly nasty hex. "Go – fuck yourself – arsehole," he spat out between breaths as his hex met one of Rostan's, blue against orange, the magic building and crackling in the hallway and making Draco's hairs stand on end as each of them fought to overpower the other's spell by brute magical force. The connecting hexes destabilised and exploded before either one could best the other though, and Draco went flailing back as the force of the shock wave hit him, sending him skittering to the floor hard, bruising his arse and elbow and knocking the wind out of him.

He shoved himself scrambling to his feet, just in time to put up a _protego_ that rebounded Rostan's curse back at him, which the other wizard dodged, swearing. _Merlin_, but it felt fucking _good_ to be armed again, and to be able to defend himself from sick fucks like Rostan. A _diffindo_ slashed across Draco's leg and he swore and staggered, nearly falling, flicking off a hex and wincing as he put weight on his wounded leg. Rostan was just a few metres back, and Draco limped towards him shielding and dodging and taking a fierce, visceral pleasure in it, eyes narrowed, grinning humourlessly. He hit Rostan with a _diffindo_ of his own, right across the belly, and moved in to strike a killing blow as Rostan stumbled and fell to his knees, dropping his wand and clutching at his abdomen.

Through the man's splayed fingers, Draco could see the yellow of fat and red of blood and meat and pink of organs, and he smirked, enjoying the moment. Taking his satisfaction in it, and he didn't think even Hermione would disapprove, given what Rostan had…done. _Shit,_ he still felt fucking _sick_ looking down at the Death Eater, the memories rotten and poisonous in his head. He strode up to the man, victory acrid and hollow, and kicked the bastard's wand away with a skitter and click.

"Not so fucking _fun _when it's a fair fight, is it, _Rostan?_" Draco asked, hand whipping down to grab Rostan's collar, pressing his wand tip to the man's head.

"Fucking little _whore_," Rostan spat, eying Draco knowingly, gaze running over his body, and Draco paled and blanched with fury and shame. He jerked his wand to strike the killing blow, and – and the Imperius wouldn't let him. It wouldn't _fucking_ let him. He wanted to – _fuck_ he wanted to – but his fingers twitched around his wand, and his arm hovered in mid-air uselessly. He couldn't kill another Death Eater without Voldemort's direct permission – not now when the Curse had been reinforced, anyway. Not a fucking _chance_. _Shit. _The rage and sick hate bubbled up hard and he had to do _something_ to get it out. Had to fucking _get it out_.

Draco sheathed his wand jerkily, and hauled Rostan to his feet, muscles burning and _hurting_ as he heaved up the bigger man's weight. He shoved him up against the wall of the hallway, one hand sliding around Rostan's throat, the other twisting in the man's long, lank hair and ripping his head back and to the side painfully. It was like a reversal of everything Rostan had even done to him. Draco had the power now – Rostan was at _his_ mercy, and Draco wasn't feeling particularly merciful. If he couldn't kill Rostan, he wanted to make the bastard _hurt._

Draco's knee came up with all his strength behind it, crushing into Rostan's bollocks, and Draco sneered as the Death Eater screamed, a high-pitched agonised sound, and tried to double over. There was a fierce fucking satisfaction in that, no matter how much even the punishing contact with the man's bits made his skin creep and crawl as he _remembered_. Rostan was clutching at his belly, trying to keep his innards from spilling out – unable to defend himself and try to hit Draco or push him away, so Draco took advantage and kneed Rostan again, and then once more. The man was blubbering at the pain now; sobbing, and Draco grinned. Put his mouth to Rostan's ear.

"Leave me the _fuck_ alone, you sick shit or next time I'll use the cutting curse on your _dick_. I might not be allowed to kill you, but it doesn't seem like the Dark Lord would care if I neutered you," he snarled in Rostan's ear, heart pounding wildly, wanting nothing more than to rip the bastard's dick off with his bare fucking hands and stuff it down his throat. Rostan was moaning softly, tears streaming from his eyes, and Draco felt that hollow satisfaction again – unfulfilling, but still better than nothing. He released Rostan and jerked a step back, checking his leg as the other man fell to his knees, and noting he'd need to get some dittany for the gash – if Voldemort would let him.

Rostan fell to his face, sprawled over the floor, still clutching his stomach, and groaning and whimpering, lost in the pain. Draco lashed his boot out, and the Imperius let him kick Rostan hard in the head without even having to fight it too much, and the man went jerked and went limp – unconscious, blood seeping slowly out from his belly wound to stain the rug. Maybe, if Draco was lucky, he thought as he limped painfully away, hand clasped to the gash in his thigh, the bastard would die before anyone came along and found him.

**# # # # # #**

_**Two Days Later**_

Draco lay on the cot in the small room that he thought had once been used as a storage room, and was where he had spent his nights for over a fortnight now. He was bone weary, both physically and mentally, but whenever he slept he dreamed about killing her, so each night he pointlessly tried to stay awake…and then fell asleep anyway, and woke up tired after too little sleep. He stared at the leaping shadows and light the single candle threw on the ceiling without really seeing them, eyes defocused, buried inside his mind as he concentrated; thinking about what Voldemort had done to him, and pouring his mental energy into actively trying to resist it.

Draco had discovered that when he had absolute quiet he could focus his mind enough that the portion of mental freedom he had retained came to the front of his mind. He hadn't been able to use it well enough yet that he could break through the Curse entirely and escape, but it was still something. So he lay there every night on his filthy cot and tried to break through the Curse, concentrating until his head pounded with tension headaches and his vision started blurring. So far, no matter how hard Draco had tried to throw the magical control off entirely he hadn't succeeded. Not _yet_ anyway, but he wasn't fucking giving up that easily.

Draco _refused_ to be Voldemort's pawn throughout the rest of this war. He refused to allow himself to be used against Hermione; but he feared that it was too late for that by now, anyway. The Dark Lord had pawed through all his thoughts and memories, and Draco knew that the evil bastard was planning something – although _what_ exactly, he didn't know, just that it would involve himself. If he hadn't broken through the Imperius within a month, Draco had decided to see if it would be possible for him to kill himself. It wasn't a pleasant thought, but it was far better than living trapped within his body and mind, seeing everything he did and being horrified by it, but unable to stop it – most of the time.

It was bloody fucking awful, to be aware of the Curse, and able to _attempt _to resist it, only to fail to break free of it altogether every time he tried. Despite the partial freedom of Draco's mind, his body still followed Voldemort's orders like an obedient puppet – torturing and killing and maiming like an obedient Death Eater should. He had been made an example of, all right. He was used as an example that illustrated that no matter what you did, or how much you changed your beliefs, Voldemort could always have control over you, if he so wished to.

But inside Draco's mind, every night when he was alone in this room with the single candle lit, he lay awake and kept trying and trying to break through the Imperius. Trying to get free of it – fruitlessly, yes, but he _refused_ to stop trying. He wondered if this had been at all how Madame Rosemerta had felt, and he felt horribly guilty for what he'd done to her all over again, because this was hell. He did what he could to resist Voldemort's orders, but unfortunately he discovered he could do very little. Once he had managed to refuse to allow himself to use the Killing Curse on a Muggleborn child as ordered, casting a _stupefy_ instead. The sense of victory that had given Draco, no matter how small, had been worth the _Crucios _for his disobedience that had followed it. The child had died anyway of course, at another Death Eater's hands.

But to have resisted a direct order…it gave Draco hope that he _could _get free of the Curse altogether and maybe get away. Escape.

Draco rubbed his hands over his face and sighed up at the ceiling. Last night he'd tortured a Death Eater at Voldemort's command, and although that was better than Muggles or Muggleborns, it still wasn't pleasant. That wasn't who he was. It never _had_ been; even when he'd wished he could torture and kill without a qualm, he hadn't been able to. But the _urge_ to do as he knew Voldemort wished him to was _overwhelming_, and when it was a Death Eater Draco couldn't seem to summon the energy needed to try to resist.

Quite frankly, he didn't think it was worth being tortured for the sake of some evil piece of scum, whom not so long ago Draco would have killed on the battlefield without a second thought. He wondered what Hermione would think of what he was doing – if she would understand he didn't really have a choice, or if she would think him weak for not being able to resist the Imperius. He wondered if he _was _weak, and this was proof of that. But Draco liked to think that Hermione would understand, and be proud of his multiple attempts to resist, despite the fact that torture and renewed _Imperius_' were all that his efforts got him.

Draco's head was pounding and he couldn't concentrate anymore – couldn't think about anything but _her_. She filled his head, and without meaning to Draco's thoughts of her turned to fantasies that made his dick harden and his balls tighten, a sudden aching need gnawing in his belly. For some reason it felt wrong to think about her like _that_ now, here in the Manor with Voldemort's shackles binding his mind, but the urge was too strong, and with a groan Draco gave up on resisting it. He was tired of resisting everything – he needed to give in to something. He threw back the thin blanket and reached down, fisted his cock in one hand as he conjured up an image of Hermione, naked and willing, lips reddened from kisses and slim hands tracing over her own body, and gave himself over to the brief, guilty pleasure.

**# # # # # #**

_**Three Weeks Post-Escape**_

Hermione opened her eyes at the sudden eruption of chaos, and her hand lashed out for a wand that wasn't there – she still hadn't gotten her replacement wand from Mr Olivander, and now she _really_ wished she had. It was pitch black in the cellar save for the lines of faint light that seeped in around the trapdoor's cracks, and she jerked upright on the bed, clutching the blankets against her chest as she listened. She could hear footsteps thumping above on the floorboards, and then screams and yells, and the snarled and shouted hexes and curses that heralded battle. _Shit_. They'd found Godric's. But _how?_ _Draco_, she thought as she flung the covers back and planted her bare feet on the floor, her heart thundering and the fogginess of sleep instantly erased by terror. She had no wand, and there were Death Eaters upstairs. Merlin, what on _earth_ was she going to _do?_

She couldn't see a thing – she used a lantern in the cellar at the moment seeing as she hadn't gotten her new wand from Olivander yet, and she'd blown it out at midnight. Hermione stood, Draco's shirt bagging around her, the hem brushing at her thighs as she bent and fumbled on the table for the matches. Her hand knocked into the box and sent it skittering to the floor and she swore, palms sweating as she dropped to her knees and began running her hands frantically over the dirt, cold on her bare knees. Then there was an explosion from upstairs that shook the whole house, and Hermione forgot about the damned lantern, pushing herself to her feet and running for the stairs, ignoring the fact that she was just in knickers and Draco's shirt. She had to find someone who could apparate her out, or she'd be trapped.

Draco. It must have been Draco who had revealed their location. She tripped straight into the first stair, stubbing her toe and falling hard, the edges of the stairs digging into her thighs and stomach and breasts, and Hermione cried out, muffling the sound quickly. She shoved herself to her feet, gasping for air as the panic swamped her, and felt her way blindly up the stairs. Draco must have told Voldemort where they were. They must have broken him then, she thought miserably, heart wrenching. Broken him and then killed him – and her stomach lurched and she swallowed down the vomit that threatened. But…no – _no!_ He had to be _alive_. Hermione's heart raced and thumped against her ribs as she stumbled up the stairs on all fours, the wooden boards rough on her bare feet and hands.

Godric's Hollow had wards up that meant only those the wards recognised could apparate in – anyone could side-along apparate with them, but they had to be brought in by someone who was cleared by the wards. _Draco was alive_. Everything else was shoved out of Hermione's mind as she repeated the words over and over in her head – _Draco was alive. He was alive._ Unless the Death Eaters had managed to break the wards – but then everyone would have been alerted to that when it happened. She shoved the trapdoor up without thinking, flinging it back and then remembering to be _careful _and waiting a second before poking her head up, lest someone shoot off a spell at the opening door. Nothing came, although the cracks and whines of hexes and curses sounded all around her, and Hermione clambered out into the dining room, looking around wildly.

Coloured lights blazed up in the dimly lit rooms of the ground floor, and the air smelt like the ozone and copper scent of battle magic. Hermione could hear people yelling and the air flashed and lit up and darkened again, explosions sounded, and screams. Her mind blurred and whirled, not thinking about her own safety, just _Draco_. Finding him, getting to him. _DracoDracoDraco_, he was here somewhere in the house, and Hermione had to find him. She ducked as a stray hex whizzed over her head from the lounge, and crouched down, thinking frantically, hair falling around her face and in her eyes, and every muscle in her body taut and pumped with adrenaline.

Hermione ducked down the hallway that led to the back porch – dark and empty of fighting, which seemed to be centred in the lounge and upstairs – and hurried into the tiny room by the porch that Remus used as an office. She knew he kept the spare wands in his top desk drawer. None of them were likely to work _well_ for her because wands were so specific to the owner, but being the wands of dead Order members, they weren't likely to backfire on her, and an inconsistently working weak wand was better than no wand at all. She yanked the drawer open and pawed through it, hunched over the desk and flinching at every smash or scream, every tinkle of glass of thump of a body against something hard.

She tested each wand she grabbed with a _lumos_, and the first one that worked she gripped hard in her fist, turning away from the desk only to slam full tilt into someone. She screamed instinctively and lashed the wand out casting a stunner as she went stumbling back. A shield charm slammed up and then Harry was saying, "It's me! It's me, Hermione!"

She pressed her hand against her chest, hard; her heart feeling like it might beat right out of it, sucking in a whooping breath of air. "_Harry_. Christ, you _scared_ me."

He was already moving to the desk, yanking all the parchments and scrolls out of the drawers and shrinking them down. "Watch the door. Remus sent me down here to get everything we need, and burn the rest in case we have to retreat."

She stumbled to the doorway and pressed herself against the doorframe, wand up, watching the hallway. "What's going on?"

"Death Eaters."

"I got _that _much, Harry!_ Honestly! _But what's – when – how…" She trailed off, tongue tripping over her words as her mind jittered from thought to thought before she could speak them aloud, and then flashed him a wide-eyed look and said what she was _really _thinking. "I think Draco's here."

Harry flicked his eyes to hers by the light of her flickering _lumos_. His mouth tightened and he didn't say anything, didn't even nod – and then he just looked quickly away and kept shrinking things and stuffing them in the leather pouch he had set on the desk.

"_Harry_." She said his name sharply, knowing he wasn't telling her something. He ignored her. "Harry, tell me!"

He hissed and sighed and then stepped back a safe distance with the pouch in his hand and _incendioed _the desk, watching it burn and controlling the flames so they didn't rage out of control.

"_Harry_, I swear to Merlin, you tell me what you know or I will –"

"Yes. He's here, Hermione. Malfoy's fucking here. I saw him when he hit Johns with a _diffindo_ and almost sliced his leg off."

"What?" Her heart lurched and leapt and then sank, and Harry flicked his wand, putting the flames out as the desk crumbled to chunks of blackened wood and ash. "_No._"

"Johns would have bled out if Mrs Weasley hadn't got a tourniquet on him and disapparated with him immediately for medical treatment, Hermione. Malfoy's fighting for the other side," Harry said roughly, tying the leather strings of the pouch around one of the belt loops on his jeans and holding out his hand to Hermione. "Now come on, we have to –"

"They must have used the _Imperius_ on him! They must have! He wouldn't just…"

"I _know_ that Hermione," Harry said, as if annoyed with her stupidity, that she would really think Harry thought Draco would switch sides again. "I _know_ he's not a bloody Death Eater. But it doesn't make much difference to us right now. He'll kill people just as dead whether he's under the _Imperius _or not."

Harry was dragging her by the hand down the hallway now, his wand up and her half a step behind him, their hands tightly clasped, and Hermione praying that her wand would work consistently for her, and not bugger up when she needed it the most. Her mind was spinning and flipping through thoughts at triple speed. "What are we doing? What's the plan – do we even have one? Where do we go if we need to retreat? And if anyone uses anything other than stunners on Draco, I'll – I'll kill them myself, you understand?" And Hermione meant that last part, too; fear and anger juddering through her nerves and bloodstream and making her head spin sharp and fuzzy at the same time.

"We're fighting." Harry paused at the door into the dining room and used a _sectumsempra_ on a Death Eater that was back-pedalling fast into the dining room from the foyer and deflecting hexes from someone else, and the man choked and fell, bleeding out fast. "We're pretty sure we're outnumbered, but not too badly, and if we retreat now we still might lose valuable information to them that wasn't in the office. If we have to though, we're apparating into Aberforth's pub. And no one wants to kill him, Hermione," he added disgustedly. She glared at Harry as they crossed the dining room to flatten themselves each side of the archway into the foyer.

"How do I know that, when you wouldn't even _consider _saving him, after I escaped? You don't give a fig about him, Harry! I don't tr–"

"Now is not the _time_ for this argument again, Hermione!" Harry yelled over the sound of her _repulso _and his stunner, ducking back behind the wall as a curse flew past him, only just missing him – if it hadn't been for his Seeker's reflexes, he'd have been on the floor screaming in pain. She gritted her teeth and let it go for now, unable to resist having the last word, shouting, "So everyone's using stunners only on him then – right?"

"Right," Harry snapped as he took out a Death Eater, sending the woman's body flying out the foyer and right across the lounge and out the windows. They both looked into the foyer quickly, and it was clear – there was fighting going on in the lounge, but from the looks of it, the Weasley twins and their father were handling the Death Eaters in there well enough on their own. Screams and yells came from upstairs though, and Hermione and Harry looked at each other as a long wail of pain sounded – it had sounded like _Tonks_.

"Come on, let's go!" he yelled, and tore for the stairs. Hermione went to follow behind, but then a wailing siren sound pierced the air – the wards had been broken – and the front door blew open, a cloaked figure storming in throwing hexes. She spun and ran back into the dining room and exchanged curses with the Death Eater, her wand working about eighty percent of the time – enough that she could hold her own, at least. And then her shield charm _failed_ while she was right out in the open, and a bone-breaking hex hit her forearm and she heard the sickening _crrrrck _as her bones snapped, and a scream peeled from her lips.

Hermione slashed her wand at the Death Eater and nearly vomited as the entrail-expelling curse struck the Death Eater square in the chest, and his blood spattered her face and neck and _got in her _mouth. She retched and ran for the stairs, pressing her broken arm protectively against her stomach and wincing at the pain shooting through it with every step.

Harry was nowhere to be seen, and just as she took the third step, a body came crashing through the balustrade at the top of the landing, and Hermione spun, blood-spattered hair whipping over her face as she checked to see it wasn't a friend – or _Draco. Draco_. It wasn't, thank Merlin. Just some unknown Death Eater with his head caved in on the floor of the foyer. Hermione's feet slammed into the carpeted stairs as she took them two at a time, using her wand hand to steady herself. And then near the top she tripped and stumbled, instinctively flinging her broken arm out to catch herself, and _screaming_ as the pain bolted through her arm up into her shoulder.

"Hermione."

Her name on his lips, and her heart stopped, her scream cut short by shock. She balled up her wand hand and pushed herself upright, lifting her eyes to Draco, standing at the top of the stairs, towering over her, and speechless, she ran her eyes over his face, soaking up every inch of him. He was clean-shaven, pale and haggard and _cold_, his lips pressed tightly together and his grey eyes like stones – flat and lifeless, blood trickling down his temple sluggishly from a gash to his forehead.

"Draco," Hermione said limply, feeling frozen in the moment, frozen in time, light-headed. "Dra –" He lifted his wand in his left hand and aimed it at Hermione, and her lips slammed shut on his name, her frozen heart starting to race again, speeding up and up and _up _until she felt like it was going to tear itself apart.

"Ava –" he began in that dreadful, flat voice, and then his dulled grey eyes fluttered shut, his body shook with a tremor and his mouth twisted up as if with pain. She felt like a stunned rabbit, frozen to the spot in front of him, her body feeling limp and heavy and _numb._ He lifted his right hand – _his right hand right hand flash of silver oh my god his _– as if he was fighting his own body – fighting the _Imperius _– and Hermione unfroze.

"_Stupefy!_" she shouted, and her wand made a little fizzle and all Hermione had time to think was, _of course it fails now, of __**course**_, before Draco's right hand rammed into her chest. It felt like he'd tried to pull the blow at the last moment, but it was too late – her arms windmilled and she wobbled, trying and failing to regain her balance. _Oh shit_. She went backwards, eyes wide as she stared at Draco, and she _saw_ his face change and his lips form a horrified _fuck_ and he lunged forward and tried to grab her. His fingers _just_ scraped over her shirt, and then she was _falling. _Her bum hit first, then her back, neck, knees – head over heels like a rag doll, and the pain slammed through her and her head spun and she felt _sick_.

And then all of a sudden – too soon, the stairs were longer, she thought dazedly – her tumble stopped. And then she rose into the air, was righted, and dizzy and sickened and aching, was sunk to her feet on a step halfway down. She fell back against the wall, sliding down it, putting out a hand to stop herself from tipping the rest of the way down the stairs, breath rasping in her ears. And then hands were on her shoulders, Draco's face filled her vision, and his eyes were everything that was beautiful and _alive_, and filled with guilt and horror and exhaustion. She knew without a doubt that he'd broken through the _Imperius_, and relief shook through her violently, making her go weak and slump forward limply.

"Dra–"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, fuck, Hermione, I'm sorry." He was stammering and stumbling over his words, hands – hands_ plural _– petting over her shoulders as he stared searchingly into her eyes. "Shit, are you –"

A curse shot towards Draco's head and he flinched, seeing it from the corner of his eye and shoving himself into Hermione, and she cried out as he crushed against her broken arm and slammed her into the wall. "Sorry-sorry-sorry," he was panting as he dragged her too her feet with one hand and shot off a hex with the other. He started pulling her down the stairs, and Hermione stumbled along behind him, staring up at him feeling like she was staring at a ghost. He was worn thin and his face seemed harder than ever, guilt written all over it, his hand warm in hers despite that it looked as though it was cast in silver. She tripped on the stairs, she was so busy staring hungrily up at him, and nearly dragged them both down, Draco recovering his balance and clutching her close to his side as they wobbled.

And then they were at the bottom and he flung out his arm and cursed a Death Eater coming through the door, the man's skin _shrivelling _and _contracting_ in on him, _twisting _him as Hermione watched. She didn't see what happened after that, because Draco was yanking her through into the lounge, where Arthur Weasley and the twins were just finishing off the last Death Eater.

"Malfoy!" Mr Weasley said grimly, and turned his wand on Draco, and Hermione shoved herself in front of him, acutely aware of the way he felt against her back, the expanding and caving of his abdomen as he breathed hard. "He's free of it! He's free of the _Imperius!_"

The three Weasleys shot Hermione and Draco a suspicious, uncertain look, and Hermione stared pleadingly at them.

"I'm fine. I'm fucking fine," Draco said rough and urgent, "I _was_ cursed but I – I broke through it just…before. Look, you have to go. Have to evacuate. There are more Death Eaters coming now they've managed to break the wards around the place and don't need me to apparate them in. This place will be _swarming_ with them in two minutes. We have to retreat."

Mr Weasley blinked, and then nodded after a pause to evaluate Draco that seemed to take too long to Hermione, still standing in front of Draco. Between him and the Weasleys'. She leant back into him more than was really necessary, racked with pain and wobbling on her feet, and feeling Draco breathe against her, a hand firm and warm on her waist, and the moment was _bliss_. God, it was really him. He was really _alive_.

"All right. We need to clear the house then. Get Harry and the others out, if they aren't already," Mr Weasley said to Draco, and then pressed his wand to his throat, shouted, "Retreat!" and the magically enhanced word echoed deafeningly through the room and the rest of the house. It repeated again and again as Mr Weasley made for the door to make sure everyone got out. Draco spun Hermione around to face him, that silver hand coming up to cradle the side of her face. He licked his lips and Hermione's insides wibble-wobbled and melted and all she could think about was mashing her lips against his. She let her eyes slide shut, face tilting up…

"That's not your wand," Draco said roughly instead of kissing her, and Hermione's eyes snapped back open and her stomach flipped and sank, frustration roaring in her veins.

"N-no."

"You need to get out then. You can't stay here with a wand that's not working properly for you."

Hermione's insides went from wibble-wobbling to crumpling up horribly, like she'd been punched in the gut. She didn't want to leave Draco now. Not _now._

"But –"

"Weasley – whichever one you are." Draco waved at Fred – she could tell because of the ear – and grabbed Hermione's arm, shoving her at the twin. "Take her to…wherever it the evacuation place is. Now. Please."

"Right, mate," Fred said and Hermione was roughly handed off to him, despite her fingers clutching out to cling onto Draco's arm, seizing at his sleeve. But her grip was ripped away when Draco stepped back, and Fred wrapped his arm around her waist, pressing over the broken arm she had tucked against her stomach and the pain stopped her from fighting to get away. She'd just got Draco back – Hermione refused to abandon him again. She _refused_. Fury overtook her, and she glared at Draco, every muscles ratcheted tight. "Draco! Don't you _dare! _I'm not going! I'm _not_ leaving you again!"

Draco's grey eyes were strangely gentle on her as they swept over her, like he was memorising her, drinking her in, and then he smiled faintly. "It'll be fine. I won't be long, Hermione. Promise." And then he turned away from her without another word, the _bastard,_ and Hermione was about to scream after him – to try to yank herself away from Fred despite his crushing hold over her broken arm – when without warning, the Weasley twin disapparated them both on the spot, and the world went blurred and squashed around Hermione and she squeezed her eyes shut. They appeared in Aberforth's cellar with a _crack_ and Hermione gasped and retched and panted, head whirling, and before she could even get her bearings, Fred snatched her wand away.

"Sorry, 'Mione, but you're not going anywhere. Can't let you," he said, backing up cautiously in case she decided to try to get her wand back by physical force. She considered it, but if she went back, she'd probably just distract Draco from concentrating on staying alive, he'd be so pissed at her, and worried.

"I _hate you_, Fred Weasley," Hermione snapped furiously, kicking at a crate next to her, eyes blurred with tears of relief and anger._ Draco_. Damn him, the _git_ – she should have stayed, she should have _helped. _If he didn't come back, she thought half-hysterically, she was going to go hunt him down and drag him back by the _bloody _hair, and anyone who got between her and him would _regret _it. _Oh Merlin, please let him be okay. _Tears washed away Hermione's vision, casting the world around her in the golden-orange leaps and flickering of the torches that lit Aberforth's cellar, and then Fred's hand was patting her back with awkward motions as she cradled her arm to her and tried to choke down her sobs. _Please let him come back._

**# # # # # #**

**Author's Note: **Wasn't that just so much more cheerful than usual? I hope you enjoyed it! It was a difficult chapter to write at first, but I'm quite happy with how it turned out – although it's rather different to how I originally envisioned it.

Please let me know what you thought of it by reviewing! Your feedback has been extra wonderful lately – both in giving me helpful critique and ideas, and in making me feel super-awesome and thus motivating me to write more quickly :D

Draco's hand: Voldemort, as we will find out in the next chapter, gifted it to Draco in order to make him a more useful tool. Two hands are better than one, and all that. Obviously, it would be impractical for the purposes of my story for Draco's hand to strangle him to death when he betrayed Voldemort, so I've written it without that aspect – let's just say that, as Draco was being controlled by the Imperio and such, Voldemort didn't feel he needed to add those spell elements to the hand. Or something :)


	10. Slow Spinning Redemption

**Author's Note: **Thank you so much for all the reviews, especially to the people who have their PMs disabled or don't have accounts, whom I can't reply to personally. Thank you so much! I love your feedback. This is the first part of what is most likely going to be a two part 'Reunion' chapter thingy. I hope you'll enjoy it!

**Warning for graphic sex.**

**# # # # # #**

_**7. Reunion, Part One: Slow Spinning Redemption**_

_Hope dangles on a string_

_Like slow spinning redemption_

_Winding in and winding out_

_The shine of it has caught my eye_

…

_So turn_

_Up the corners of your lips_

_Part them and feel my fingertips_

_Trace the moment, fall forever_

_Defence is paper thin_

_Just one touch and I'd be in_

_Too deep now to ever swim against the current_

_[Vindicated, Dashboard Confessional]_

**# # # # # #**

They'd given Hermione Skele-Gro potion for her broken arm, splinted it neatly, and sent her away to a safehouse despite her furious protests that she had to stay here until Draco got back safely. But they wouldn't have a bar of it. They promised to have Draco apparate directly to the safehouse once he got back, and then they sent her off to side-along apparate with a rather dull-looking fellow Hermione didn't know, who rather aptly introduced himself as, "Dolt. Nice t' meetcha, Miss." Or at least, Hermione had thought that was what he had introduced himself as – she was a little woozy from the pain potion they'd poured down her throat against her wishes. She suspected it was more to calm her and make her pliable than to dull the pain, because her arm hadn't hurt that much, and they'd healed all her bruises.

The safehouse was a small, rundown farm cottage in the middle of nowhere, and they had cracked into existence on the front path, leaving Hermione staring at the front door, which even by the moonlight she could tell was badly in need of a fresh coat of paint. She stumbled and nearly threw up – discombobulated – and 'Dolt' grabbed her arm and steadied her. "Y' right, Miss?" he asked, sounding almost as though he cared, but mostly just sounding distracted, and Hermione wondered, mind swimming a little from the pain potion, why on earth a man would be in favour of the name 'Dolt'. She _must _have misheard him.

"F-fine, thank you," she said vaguely, and let him lead her inside, into the pitch black, waving his wand and set the fireplace up into a merry blaze, and lighting the torch sconces on the walls. It was a small place, and a little musty, with positively ancient looking furniture, but Hermione didn't really care. She felt ill, and it wasn't thanks to the apparition, but worrying about Draco. She kept replaying every moment she'd spent with him that night over and over in her head and clinging to the images – every nuance to his expression, every emotion flickering through those grey eyes, his _hand _– oh Merlin, his _hand_. She couldn't get over how amazing and shocking _that_ was.

"Dora Tonks an' 'er kid are upstairs sleepin'," Dolt said with a jerk of his head, "An' I've got t' go c'llect a few more folks 'fore I'm back the night. You be right waitin' 'ere by y'self?"

"Fine, thank you," Hermione said again, hugging herself around the middle and looking about the bottom floor of the cottage. To her left looked like the kitchen through a narrow doorway, and she stood in the lounge, which spread off to her right, a staircase at the far end of it which she guessed led up to the bedrooms. A hallway stretched out in front of her, which she supposed led to more bedrooms, or the bathroom and loo. Dolt nodded and headed back out the door, closing it quietly behind him, and Hermione went and perched on the end of the couch, facing the front door, and waited.

She realised belatedly that she was still in just Draco's shirt and her knickers beneath the heavy travelling cloak someone had wrapped around her at Aberforth's, and had a brief moment of embarrassment that distracted her from thoughts of Draco, as she tugged the shirt further down her thighs, trying to tell herself that really, she'd been perfectly decent. The shirt came to mid-thigh, and was certainly less revealing than the togs she wore swimming. But somehow it wasn't the same as togs. The ancient, threadbare couch was stuffed with horsehair that prickled at her bare legs through her travelling cloak, and the sconce lights and the fire sent shadows and orange light licking up over the walls and ceiling, and Hermione was bone-weary.

She pinched at her thighs and arms trying to keep herself alert, and got up and wandered around the house at one point. There was a bedroom and a loo and bathroom down the hallway on the first floor, and upstairs there were three more small bedrooms, one of which Hermione peeked into and saw Tonks and Teddy were tucked up in, fast asleep. She smiled at the pair of them curled up together, relief warming her insides. Tonks had taken a _Crucio_ back at Godric's, trying to protect Teddy, and everyone was horribly aware it could have easily been the Killing Curse instead of the Cruciatus, and then Tonks would have been dead, just like Harry's mother. But she wasn't – she was snuggled up with her son, while poor Remus was stuck back at Aberforth's, organising everyone; but safe at least, even if he wasn't with his wife and child.

Hermione padded down to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. The kitchen had a big old-fashioned range dominating it, and a small rectangular scarred oak table. The pantry, she saw, was stocked with tinned goods mostly, and other non-perishables. Obviously this was a back-up safehouse that hadn't seen much use throughout the war so far. It _did_ have tea, and Fred had given Hermione back the wand she'd been using at Godric's tonight once she'd promised not to try to apparate back for Draco, so she had a pot of tea steeping in no time. She sat down at the kitchen table to wait for it to brew nice and strong, yawning and propping her head up in her hands, blinking hard.

The next thing Hermione knew was that her cheek was squashed into something hard, her neck felt stiff, and a hand was gently shaking her shoulder. She jerked upright and winced, swiped a trail of drool from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, and stared up into…Draco's face. She just stared up at him for a moment, wondering if she was dreaming. But his face was painfully haggard and exhausted, there was the fresh gash on his forehead, his nose was black with bruising across the bridge and sweeping right out beneath both his eyes, and his bottom lip split and swollen, and Hermione knew that she wouldn't dream of him like this, so battered and wounded. He was real. He was _safe_.

Draco didn't say a word. Just looked down at her, his eyes nearly black in the light and solemn, grave, features carefully blank other than that, his fingertips still resting lightly on her shoulder, little points of heat on her skin through the cloak. Hermione's lips trembled and her heart stuttered and swelled to bursting, and she shoved herself stumbling to her feet and _threw_ herself at him. Draco went rocking back, making a little _oof_ sound as she impacted him, and then her arms clung around his middle and he wrapped his around her just as tightly, and she could feel both his hands – _both hands_ – pressing hard into her back.

"Draco," was all she could say, like a speechless idiot, as her chin wobbled and tears watered up in her eyes. "Draco."

Hermione buried her face into his chest and breathed in the familiar scent of him, heady and intoxicating, even with the clinging odours of blood and sweat and healing potions. Draco's lips pressed against the top of her head, and he exhaled hot on her scalp, and she clung harder to him, as if she was afraid this really _was_ a dream and in a moment he'd vanish. But his body was hard and hot against hers, his fingers digging into her back, and his head bowed to hers, and she knew that he was real. Really, truly, _real_. After everything, they were finally together and safe, and it seemed like such a victory. Like such a relief.

A sob ripped its way out of her throat, and her hands fisted in the back of Draco's shirt, hot tears trickling down her nose to wet his shirt. One of his hands lifted to stroke over her hair – still loose and utterly wild, although Mrs Weasley had _scourgified _the blood out of it for her. Draco still hadn't said a single word, and Hermione swayed back slightly, hands shifting to his shoulders, meeting his eyes and furrowing her brow. His eyes were dark and so grave on hers, and a shiver of fear went through her. What was wrong? What was wrong? She just wanted to be _happy_, but he was looking at her like…

"Draco?"

"You need to know that… I killed people," he said slowly, eyes fixed on her face, boring into her, as though he could see straight into her head. "While I was under the _Imperius_ I killed innocent people, and I tortured innocent people, and I –"

"Shh, hey…shh, it's all right." Her hand came up to his face, fingertips sliding over his cheek and down along his jaw, and she felt sick with empathy for him. To know that you'd killed and tortured people…to have watched yourself do it and been unable to stop yourself – Hermione couldn't imagine how awful it must have been for him. "That was the _Imperius_. It wasn't you – you couldn't help it."

Draco licked his lips, wincing as his tongue ran over the split. He looked nervous. Hopeful. Utterly weary. "You don't…care?"

She did care, in that it must have been horrible for him and because innocent people had died and that was horrible too – but she knew what he meant.

"I don't care in the slightest, Draco."

"That's…that's…good," he settled on at last, a little of the strain going out of his face and Hermione smiled at him, half-giddy with glee and tiredness and the lingering effects of the pain potion. She opened her mouth to say something else supportive, and Draco ducked his head and kissed her parted lips. The breath slammed out of her at the touch of his lips on hers – hot and dry and _hungry_, and her womb clenched and her fingers clawed hard into his shoulders, her whole body immediately kicking into overdrive. It had been so long, and she'd half thought he was _dead_, and now he was _here_ and he was _kissing_ her, and it was heavenly, and she throbbed all over at the mere touch of his lips to hers. She wanted to rip all their clothes off and do him right here, on the kitchen table. She wanted to climb up him and cling to him and glue their mouths together, tongues tangling and hands searching, and just stay like that forever. Locked together.

His tongue slipped between her lips and she moaned, a low, wobbling, wanting sound, and his hips bumped out against hers, and his hands seized in her hair and on her bum, and Hermione still couldn't get over the fact that Draco Malfoy _had two hands._ She had gotten so accustomed to him as he had been since his arrival at Godric's Hollow that it was almost like she'd forgotten he'd _ever_ had two hands, and to feel both of them touching her at once was surreal. But he was kissing her hard and fierce, hands roaming over her, mouths clashing, and she was dragged away from thoughts of hands, and simply enjoyed what they could _do_.

"You're wearing my shirt," Draco murmured huskily in Hermione's ear as his hands teased up beneath it and cupped her bare breasts, thumbs circling over and around her nipples, and she hissed with pleasure and mewled, and then nodded. "Mm…hmm," she managed breathily in assent, and then her thoughts splintered and fell away again as he backed her up against the edge of the kitchen table, sucking on her bottom lip greedily and running his hands beneath the band of her knickers, and then kneaded her bum thoroughly while his tongue tingled over her teeth and gums and sent welcome shivers down her spine. He pulled back, nuzzling at her neck and making little growling sounds that made her melt and moan.

"How long have you been wearing my shirts?"

"Every night. Every day." It was a whisper as his lips kissed a trail over her cheeks, his hands slid into the mass of her hair and tipped her head up. "I was keeping them warm for you," she admitted softly. "And even when they didn't smell like you…they still did."

"Fuck, I missed you so much." He mumbled it roughly and all desperation, breathing her in deeply as he nuzzled at her throat, just beneath her ear, and she whimpered and swayed into him. And then his teeth closed over her skin, and he bit her – not a soft lovebite, but a hard one that would bruise – and Hermione yelped with fright and flinched back, and their eyes met wide as she clapped her hand over the mark. A flush bloomed on his cheeks, and she could see the shame erupting in his eyes, and she remembered all the long nights in the cell. All the times he'd taken her rough and hateful, and she'd let him, and it had become the new normal, and she understood instantly.

But things weren't like that anymore. That wasn't okay, anymore.

He tried to speak and his voice cracked, and he flushed redder, cleared his throat and tried again. "Fuck. I'm sorry." His thumb stroked over her cheek, silver and warm. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to – it just…"

She sucked in a breath through her teeth, nodding at him gently, hand still to her neck. "I still pull my hair out," she told him very quietly; a confession, a secret for a secret, and a slow, sad sort of smile spread over his face like a pale dawn.

**# # # # # #**

After that, the moment retreated – not gone, just waiting for them to be ready to seize it. But they both seemed to silently agree that perhaps they should talk a little before they fell into bed and tore each other's clothes off, now the initial tension had been eased by that first snog, and there was an uneasy kind of peace in the air. They sat at the small kitchen table across from each other after Draco shut the door and put a locking charm on it, so they couldn't be burst in on unannounced and Hermione had poured the tea she'd made earlier. It wasn't very nice after being reheated, and she had dumped in so much sugar that Draco wrinkled up his nose at the first sip but stoically made a pleased sound and nodded at her, drinking it anyway. It was the sweetest thing she'd ever seen, Hermione decided, elbow on the table and chin cupped in her hand, staring at him over her mug of too-sweet tea as he pretended to enjoy his.

There was a long silence as they both stared at each other almost warily over their cups of tea. There was just…_so much._ So much to talk about, so much to heal, so much to try to work through, and Hermione didn't know where to begin, and it seemed Draco didn't have much clue either. It was sort of awkward, actually, but in a nice kind of way, because awkwardness was so much better than terror and pain and nightmares and being torn apart from each other. Now they just had to figure out how to put themselves back together, and that was hardly the worst thing in the world. They were lucky to even have the chance.

In the end, Hermione went for the safest ground she could think to start with; the most obvious thing – wrapped around Draco's mug and glinting in the light the way it was – and also definitely not the worst thing, because no matter _how_ he'd got it, _he had it_.

"Your, ah, hand. How – why? It's like Peter Pettigrew's, but…" She trailed off, staring across the table at him expectantly, taking in the white-blonde hair that was long enough now that his fringe fell over his eyes, and he kept blowing it out of them with little irritated puffs of air. His bruises over his nose looked awfully painful, and when she wondered why he had left Aberforth's without even stopping to have them healed, the only answer she could come up with was that he hadn't wanted to wait to see her. And _that_ made her stomach flip and coil and scrunch up in melty delight. His mouth was as sensuous and expressive as ever, even with his lip all split and swollen, and despite looking terribly haggard, he looked far younger without the beard he'd had the last time Hermione had seen him.

He looked down at the table. "The Dark – Voldemort. Shit. Merlin-_damnit. _The _Imperius _made me say it like that, and it seems I'm in the habit again, and –"

"It's all right." Hermione's voice was soft and gentle because he sounded dead tired, and a little shaky and angry at himself for the slip of the tongue, and her eyes didn't move from his face. She couldn't tear them away, soaking up every bit of him; like a starving man confronted by a feast she was stuffing her face with the sight of Draco.

"Voldemort gave it to me after the second _Imperio_ – he had to keep recasting the Curse, because I kept fighting against it," he explained, sounding dispassionate and his features like stone, and Hermione nodded encouragingly. "He said that I would make a more useful servant if I wasn't crippled." Draco's eyes dropped to his mug, cradled in both hands on the table. "I think I was his _prize_, or something. An example to all the others – a fully functional Death Eater whom everyone knew had defected and fought for the other side. A lesson that no one could escape him. So he wanted me at my best. Like – like a prized show pet." He looked up at her, one side of his mouth tugging up in a slightly bitter smile, shrugging a shoulder. "At least I got a hand out of everything. Although I'm not sure if I'd call it worth it, exactly. I'd rather not be…grateful…to Voldemort."

There wasn't really anything Hermione could say to that pain lancing through his words, and the silence stretched out again as they both drank their tea and watched each other, wary and hungry at once.

"I'm sorry," he said at last, rubbing a hand over his face tiredly and peeking through his fingers at her and Hermione cocked an eyebrow questioningly. "About…back at Godric's. Before I broke through the _Imperius_. I nearly fucking killed you, Hermione. I'm sor –"

"But you didn't," she interrupted firmly, and her hand slid across the table, and Draco took it with his real hand, fingers all twining up together, his grip firm and warm. She took a deep breath, feeling guilty and admitted _her_ fault. "I'm sorry I didn't come back for you. I – I wanted to, so badly, but Harry and the others said that we couldn't, that we had to _leave _you there because…and…and I couldn't persuade them otherwise, and then…" She gulped. "I'm still _furious_ with Harry."

"I thought Potter could do no wrong?" he asked, smirking faintly, and she glared at him. "It's not funny, Draco! I – I just _left _you there, to be tortured and r–"

"Hermione…" he warned her, eyes narrowing and face turning harder than before, and she cut off the word hovering on her tongue. The air in the kitchen seemed to get thick and heavy all of a sudden; sticking in her throat and making her chest feel full and leaden. She looked down at their hands, linked together on the scarred tabletop.

"Are – are we going to talk about that? Not just…_that_…but all of it, I mean. Is…that something that we need to talk about?" she asked staring at him full of nervous worry, not sure _what_ they should be doing, because she'd never had to deal with a situation like this before and she had no idea where to even begin. Like so many things in her life that involved Draco, Hermione somehow doubted there was a handy book that told her how to cope with this particular situation. Draco was an unknown quantity, and somehow whenever he was around, things seemed to be so much more complicated than they ever had been before.

"I…don't know," Draco prevaricated, but Hermione could tell very clearly that he didn't want to. "Is that something _you_ want to do?" he asked slowly, reluctantly. "Talk about it all?"

"I don't know if I _want_ to, but maybe we, ah, might need to."

"Because of before? When I...?" He waved his free hand awkwardly at her neck and the bite he'd given her there, looking knotted up with stiff embarrassment. Hermione touched light fingers to the spot and felt tenderness; he must have bruised her, then. She nodded, feeling bad for making him feel guilty because it had been natural for him to do that, but it couldn't go on because she didn't want their intimacy to be twisted up in what had happened to him. She bit her lip and nodded slightly. "Partly."

"I won't do it again, Hermione, I swear. I didn't mean to, and I won't ever forget again," he said rough and firm, but something rather like panic flitted over his face, looking unfamiliar there after his rough, hard decisiveness earlier in the night at Godric's.

"Draco… I know you –"

"We can talk about some of it, then," he interrupted hurriedly. "If you really feel we must. But I don't want to talk about _that_. About…Rostan."

"Draco…" That was probably the thing he needed to talk about the most. Hermione wasn't sure if it was something he needed to talk about right away, but he'd probably have to deal with it at some point. And she didn't know if she was the right person to talk to either, but then she couldn't think of a single other human being Draco would even _consider _confiding in about that type of thing. She very much doubted if he would talk to her without some serious persuasion. She remembered how it had felt to have the Death Eaters' hands groping and grasping at her during the torture, remembered the fear of _knowing_ that she was going to be raped, before Snape had saved her from that – and they weren't feelings she felt comfortable sharing with Draco. They weren't feelings Hermione wanted to share with _anyone_.

What had happened to her – and what had nearly happened if not for Snape's intervention – made her feel sick and ashamed, like she just wanted to bury the experiences deep down and try to forget. But she had the feeling that if she did that, they'd rot inside her, and taint everything. And they weren't feelings she deserved to have to live with, either. She had nothing to feel ashamed about; she'd done nothing wrong. She was a victim, and a survivor – an innocent. It was the Death Eaters that deserved to feel sick and ashamed, not that they ever likely would. Of course, maybe Draco was different to her – maybe he really _didn't_ need to talk about it, and didn't feel sick and ashamed; he just didn't want to go over horrible memories. But she doubted that – she'd seen in the cell how he had felt, after being brought back from it, when he'd been too broken to try to hide his emotions, and shame had been written all over him.

So maybe Draco just felt even sicker and more ashamed than she did, and couldn't fathom the idea of exposing himself to her like that – especially considering he didn't find sharing feelings natural or easy, having been brought up to mask them.

"I know you don't want to, and I'm not saying you should right away, but maybe it's something that might help, at some point. Getting everything out." Because that was what the rough anger during the sex they'd had in the cell had been about. That was what all the hateful words he'd spat in her ear and the bites she'd let him give her had been about – about letting it all out. But he couldn't keep doing it that way – he had to find something healthier, like words. Only Hermione felt too hypocritical to say it bluntly like that, because look at her – she was still a wreck herself, indulging in all the same negative coping techniques.

Draco's jaw clenched, and his fingers tightened briefly on hers, his eyes slid away and then back to her face, shuttered and dark. "I can't, Hermione. I won't – I'll try not to…do any of that sort of thing when we fuck –" The word sounded shockingly crude cutting through the thick air and Hermione tried not to flinch from it as Draco stared her down. "– But I'm not sitting here and telling you all about what happened in great detail, and how it made me _feel_. All right?"

"I just –"

"I swear to Merlin, Hermione, I'm not fucking joking. I'm serious. I am not talking about it." He pulled his hand out of hers and kept eying her unblinkingly; a sharp hardness to his features that hadn't been there before, and Hermione dropped her gaze and nodded.

"All right. Okay. I'm sorry I pushed you about it, Draco. I shouldn't have. Now probably isn't the best time to talk about this sort of thing anyway, when everything's so…new, and unsettled. And really, we should be…happy right now." She smiled tentatively at him, leaving her hand lying on the table, and after a moment Draco nodded agreement and returned Hermione's smile, and his hand snuck back out and curled around hers again.

"You're right. We should be, shouldn't we?" he said, and pushed his tea cup away from him like he'd made a decision, and for some reason Hermione blushed under his gaze. Draco tugged at her hand, getting to his feet and looking down at her, something hot and dangerous lighting in his eyes. Her insides felt all watery and shivery, and her knees went weak as she stood, holding hands across the narrow table. He pulled on her hand, guided her around the table and drew her close to him, his hands sliding up her arms and curling up to cup her neck. His fingertips pressed firmly against the back of her head, buried in her hair, and his thumbs stroked up gentle over her cheeks, and Hermione tipped her head and brushed her lips over his wrist, shifted her eyes up to his. She felt hot all over, and like she couldn't get enough air to fill her lungs, her chest tight and her tummy all knotted up with nervous anticipation.

"Do we have a bedroom?" he asked her, and a smile curled the corners of his mouth, thumbs still dragging up over her cheeks, and Hermione gasped in a little breath.

"There's…there's one just down the hallway, with a double bed. I thought maybe we could –" Draco cut her off with his mouth hard on hers, fingertips digging firmer into her scalp, teeth tugging at her lower lip and then tongue slipping hot and greedy between her lips, and shocks of want bolted through Hermione so hard she mewled into his mouth and swayed, grabbing his arms to keep herself upright. Draco wrapped an arm around her waist, yanking her closer and bending his head down, his mouth taking thorough possession of hers. He tasted like the aniseed of bruise potion, and smelt like blood and sweat and leather and that indefinable scent that was him, and Hermione's fingers curled and dug into his shoulders, feeling the hard, jutting heat of his erection digging into her belly.

_Oh Merlin._

He turned them around, still kissing her, still crushing her against him, and she heard a tap of a wand on wood and then the creak of the door swinging open, and then he was backing her through the doorway. He pulled back, lips reddened and more swollen than before, a bright flush of hot colour over his cheeks, panting a little. "That way?" he asked her, pointing towards the hallway, and Hermione nodded, breathless and so filled with wrenching lust she felt like she was going to shiver apart if he didn't _touch_ her and shag her and… "Yeah," she said weakly, and he kissed her cheekbone, eyes glinting silver and hooded, a smirk to his mouth, his new right hand squeezing her arse as he spun them and walked them both in that direction, seizing her mouth again, like he physically couldn't keep away from it, even for that short journey.

Hermione was tripping over her own feet, and his, and by the time they got the handful of steps to the hallway Draco was growling with frustration into her mouth. "Fuck you're clumsy, woman," he said, teasing her in a voice that was all rough and husky and made heat pool in her belly and her knickers get rather wet as she whimpered at the heat of his ragged breath on her throat. Draco wrapped his arms around her, lifted her up with an arm around her waist and the other clutching her arse and she squeaked with fright, wrapped her legs tight around him and grabbed his hair in her fists. She pulled too hard at his hair and Draco swore and staggered a moment, turning to bump her up against the hallway wall and get a better grip on her.

"Shit. It _is_ attached to my head, you know," he breathed, half-laughing, and Hermione's cheeks flamed and she loosened her grip on his hair, and then with her shoulders jammed into the wall and his cock grinding against her pubic bone, Draco found her throat and suckled hard. Not a bite, not an angry thing, but something full of hungry, greedy, frantic want and Hermione arched her neck back and shuddered out a groan at the feel, her hands fisting too-hard in his hair again, but he didn't complain this time. He rocked and thrust his hips into her, little bumping movements that rubbed against her clit, and she found herself whimpering shamelessly, not caring who might come in; her cloak pushed back and shirt rucked up, his hand cupping one bum cheek over her knickers and imprinting his fingermarks into her flesh.

Draco's breath grew shorter, his forehead fell to her shoulder, dry humping against the wall like a couple of kids, and Hermione's skin was _burning_ with the heat of arousal, the feeling in her clit building and _building_ as he rocked his erection against it. She pulled his head up by his hair and stared into his eyes, all charcoals and greys and glazed over with want and pupil-swamped, and she kissed him hard. Press of soft lips, and the scrape and clash of teeth, hot slick tongue and taste of aniseed, and she kissed him hard, her tongue delving into his mouth and exploring every bit of it. Smooth blunt teeth and the ridges of his gums, rough-warm tongue that teased and titillated, full lips that were just perfect to suck on, and clasp gently between her teeth – careful of the split in his lower one.

He let her explore him, let her take the lead and be in control, and it was like heaven, like bliss and nirvana and everything good and perfect. Hermione tilted her hips out into him, pressing against his cock trapped in his trousers, and she slid her fingers through his hair and down his neck, raising goosebumps in her wake. Down over his shoulders and slipping up under his cloak, feeling the burning heat of his skin beneath the expensive cotton shirt he wore. It was like he was burning up, and his eyes were feverish on hers – and Hermione knew it was his desire for her that made him so dazed and glazed and hot, and that made her want him even _more._ Her hands ran over every bit of him she could reach, and her shoulder blades ground into the wall as he thrust, gently and rhythmically rubbing his erection against her clit through the barrier of her knickers and his trousers. Hermione flicked her tongue over his parted lips, just barely slipping between them and scraping over his teeth, kissed the corner of his mouth, clamped her lips over the tip of his tongue and sucked on it, swirling her tongue around his like she was sucking his cock.

And everything she did prompted little moans from him, dragged out low, throaty groans, or elicited sharp hisses of jagged breath, and she felt _powerful_ to have such an effect on Draco. To be able to make him sound like this, and look like this – hot, glazed and greedy, dilated pupils fixed on her as he let her play with him. Lust slammed through Hermione, right to her womb, twisting up her belly deliciously, her nipples ached for his touch, her breasts felt heavy and hot, and between her legs twitched and throbbed with a slick, desperate want – and she needed him _now_.

And then the front door handle rattled and Draco _dropped_ Hermione without warning, and she stifled a shriek and hit the ground hard, falling back against the wall. In one fluid motion Draco yanked her hard behind him and drew his wand, pointing it at the door. She stumbled and nearly fell as her legs gave way, grabbed onto the back of his cloak to keep herself upright, gasping in air and not quite sure what on earth was going on. His free arm curled out behind him, searching for her, finding her hand and clutching it hard while she leant into his back and her head spun, trying to figure out what had just happened. And then the door opened and Draco let out a rasping sigh and lowered his wand arm.

"Shit. _Shit._" Draco let go of Hermione's hand and scrubbed his hand over his face, sinking back against the wall as the tension ran out of him, and Hermione wrapped her cloak quickly around her as she saw Dolt stepping inside, followed by Dean and Seamus.

"Hermione, I didn't know you were here." Dean grinned, and then he took in her current state – panting and flushed, hair utterly wild, lips feeling tender and probably looking swollen – and his eyebrows slowly lifted, he looked away and cleared his throat. Seamus smirked, not looking away, and Hermione narrowed her eyes and glared at him until he ducked his eyes and looked shame-faced. She patted her hands over her hair with shaking hands, and smiled brightly at the three men, trying to breathe calmly and slowly. Dolt nodded at them all and ambled off toward the stairs without a word, and that left Hermione, Draco, Seamus and Dean. The awkwardness was palpable.

"I'm glad to see you two are all right," she said with a small smile, fighting the urge to wipe at her damp lips and cover the hickeys she knew had to be blossoming dark red on her throat and neck.

"Yeah, Seamus managed to blow up the bloody kitchen and knock himself out trying to stun a Death Eater, but other than that, we're fine. Everyone is, as far as I've heard."

"That's…good," Hermione said, fidgeting with the neck of her cloak.

"Er, good to have you back, Malfoy," Dean offered hesitantly, and Hermione swung her head around to see Draco still slumped back against the wall, cloak wrapped around him, eyes on Hermione and the other two – and she knew what he was trying to hide with the drape of his cloak. Her breath jerked in and her heart beat a little faster, and Draco must have seen it on her face, because he straightened up and nodded at Dean and Seamus.

"Good to be back." His voice was too rough and ragged – it _sounded_ like he'd just been snogging Hermione senseless, and if she could have blushed any redder, she would have. "We've got the downstairs bedroom," Draco continued without any preamble, low and blunt and _very_ meaningful, and if Dean and Seamus had had any doubt about what Hermione and Draco had been doing, and what they were going to do, they certainly didn't now. Draco may as well have said, 'I'm going to go shag Hermione's brains out now' she thought, not sure if she should be more mortified or turned on.

"Hermione." It wasn't a request for her to come with him, it was an order, and goosebumps broke out all over Hermione's skin. She swallowed hard and turned her eyes back to Dean and Seamus, trying not to die of either embarrassment or lust. "Ah – the kitchen's just there, and there's a –" Draco's hand was suddenly warm sliding over her back and she jerked in a shaky breath, her words wobbling away to nothing, and she thought she must look like a lobster, and Seamus was trying to hide a laugh. "– There's a bedroom upstairs with two singles that you can use – the first on the left."

"_Hermione_." Draco said her name again, and his hand sought out hers within the folds of her cloak, fingers interlocking, and he squeezed her hand hard, tugged at her insistently.

"Um. Ah. Have a good sleep," Hermione finished cheerily, if awkwardly, and Dean and Seamus said good night, both trying to hide their grins as they headed for the kitchen. Hermione let Draco lead her away, down to the bedroom, her heart pounding wildly in her chest with anticipation and lingering embarrassment, and her cheeks on fire.

**# # # # # #**

The bedroom was small with one large window, the curtains drawn shut, and the floor creaking under their feet as Draco led Hermione inside. He locked the door behind them, and she watched him with her heart in her throat, feeling as nervous as if it was their first time. She swallowed hard and looked around the room. The double bed filled most of it, leaving only a narrow path to walk around it, with a bedside table on each side of the bed, and a built-in wardrobe that didn't look like it had enough space for the door to open all the way. Draco walked to the window and flicked the curtain aside with his wand, stared out into the darkness, radiating edgy tension, and Hermione approached him slowly. Her hand gripped his elbow, the other resting lightly on his back, and he jumped, looked down at her and arched an eyebrow.

"We're safe here. They have wards up around the place, and the Auror's upstairs. You don't need to…" she tried to reassure him, and he let the curtain fall shut and turned to face her.

"I've had reason to be a little paranoid lately." Draco ran his hand through his hair and tossed his wand on the bedside table, began unhooking his cloak. "Couldn't let down my guard for a fucking minute when I was under the _Imperius._ All the Death Eaters hated me, and if I didn't watch my back…well, they couldn't kill me, but they did know some nasty hexes."

Draco sounded wound up tight as a spring, and Hermione watched him painfully. The stiff jerky movements to him, the flattening of his lips and the hardness to his eyes; he was all locked up inside himself, and Hermione wondered how long it would take him to relax, and let his guard down. She slipped her cloak off her shoulders and let it slither to the floor.

"I'm sorry."

"Not your fault." He was brisk and matter-of-fact, and very, very cold – like he'd been earlier when Hermione had tried to talk about Rostan with him. He looked like he was balanced on a knife's edge. She sat on the bed, tucking her feet up under her and watching him as he sat down heavily on the edge, unlaced his boots with deft fingers – that silver hand looked so strange – and toed them off, stripped off his socks and wiggled his bare toes on the cold floor. She smiled at that, and then he stood and his fingers went to his shirt buttons, and Hermione jerked in a breath.

"Wait!"

"What?" Draco paused, looking down at her curiously, and she went up on her knees across the bed to him, and then took his hands in hers and brought them down from his top button, biting her lips and feeling strangely shy.

"I thought…that was my job…" Hermione said softly, looking at the shiny black top button instead of his face, feeling silly, and heard him chuckle shortly, looked up to meet his eyes and he was smiling with amusement and happiness. He put a finger beneath her chin, tilted her face up and kissed her mouth lightly, and she shuddered and made a happy humming sound into his mouth, leaning into the kiss.

"Go on then," Draco said when he drew away smirking, and Hermione lifted her hands to his shirt and slowly began to unbutton it. His torso was pale and lean and _scarred_ – bites and cuts, a blanket of them, and they _hurt_ just to look at. They made Hermione want to cry over the pain he'd been through, and she decided she would see if they could get some scar liniment tomorrow. Not because the scars looked unattractive or marred him, but because she didn't want both of them to be reminded of what they'd been through every time he took off his shirt – which reminded her she hadn't been using the liniment on her scars yet either, and she wondered what he would think of them in the soft torchlight of this room, instead of by the near-dark of their cell.

He held his breath as she unbuttoned him, and when her skin brushed over his stomach as she opened his shirt, it caved under her hands as he sucked in a shaky breath at last. She slid her hands up his chest, and pushed the shirt off his shoulders, her eyes locked to his face, and her own breath coming shallow and funny. Draco shrugged his shirt down is arms, bent his head and kissed Hermione softly while he jerked the sleeves off his hands, and then moved back a step to unbutton his trousers and shove them down his hips. He was gorgeous. His cock jutted out in a tent against his shorts, and despite his thinness he was so lovely and tall and broad, his muscles lean and wiry, and Hermione absorbed the sight of him all over again. And then he pushed his shorts down decisively and his cock sprang free and bobbed there between them, looking achingly hard.

She leaned forward and wrapped her hand around it, and it was hot steel beneath velvet, and he groaned and she looked up to see his head fall back, his lip caught between his teeth, his hand coming up to grip her upper arm, his muscles tense and eyes slitted.

"Fuck that feels so good," he hissed quietly, and Hermione smiled as her hand moved on his erection, tugging and twisting gently, her eyes on his face.

"Stop," he said suddenly, and she dropped her hand away instantly. "You're still dressed," he murmured in her ear, and his hands found the hem of her – his – shirt, and she lifted her arms up, let him pull it off over her head. His face changed then, when he looked at her. His mouth twisted and his eyes shuttered, and he looked suddenly bleak. Hermione frowned, about to cover herself, feeling curiously exposed, when he dragged his silver fingers lightly over a scarred bite mark just above her breast.

"I didn't realise. Shit, Hermione, I'm sorry. So sorry." His eyes flicked from her scars to her face. "Why haven't you gotten rid of them?"

She shrugged, feeling stupid. "They…were part of what we went through together. _Together._ I just…didn't want to get rid of them until you came back."

"And now you will?" Draco hissed and shook his head with annoyance at himself. "Not that you _should_ – I don't care what they look like, I mean. But I know how you feel about…scars…" His fingers hovered over the _mudblood _on her chest, and Hermione took his fingers, redirected his hand to her breast, and he got the idea – cupped it in his hand, thumb dragging over her nipple and she made a strangled sort of noise as the sensation ground right through her to her womb and her clit, and a little sob broke her throat.

"Good?" Draco asked quietly, and Hermione nodded once, and then pulled him down to her, down onto the bed, his skin hot against hers, his body heavy, and his mouth wet as he kissed a sloppy path down her throat, across her chest, to her left nipple, his mouth closing around it. Hermione gasped and her hips bucked, her fingers digging into his shoulders as a squirming, wrenching pleasure took over her body and her mind, blotting out everything else. Draco's fingers tugging at her knickers, his throat hot beneath her mouth as she sucked at it, his tongue laving over her clit, her tongue swirling over the head of his cock, his breath and mouth and hands _hot_ on her… And Draco's frantic jumbled whispers in Hermione's ear and against her skin as he sank into her, _filling her_ – filling her up with heat that sank right into her bones and made her whole body throb; with need, and satisfaction, and a visceral, greedy, pleasure.

_I love you I love you Hermione Iloveyou oh fuck somuch fuckloveyousomuch love love oh shit you feel sofuckinggood…Hermione…_

**# # # # # #**

Draco woke tangled up beneath the covers with her, the room dark and the bed soft and warm, Hermione's delicate snores competing with the first notes of birdsong, and for a moment he thought he was dreaming. He wasn't lying on a pile of rags in a dark cell; he wasn't lying on a thin mattress on a makeshift cot in an old storage room in the manor. He wasn't under the Imperius. He had two hands, even if one was a reminder of Voldemort, and what Draco had been forced to do while under the _Imperius_. His nose hurt, and his lip still stung a little, and the gash on his forehead throbbed, but other than that he was blissfully free of pain.

Draco was lying on his back sprawled din the middle of the double bed, and Hermione's head was pillowed on his shoulder, her leg hooked over his, her arm flopped over his stomach, and his arms encircling her. He could feel her heartbeat against his skin, and everything was silent and peaceful except for the birdsong, and the little thread of her snores, which really sounded rather adorable. Draco closed his eyes and let himself _relax_, breathing in the scent of her hair, which was, of course, half strewn over his face. He yawned jaw-crackingly and a few locks of hair got in his mouth, and he made a face, tried to fish them out.

"Wha? Wazzat bliv?" Hermione stirred in his arms as he accidentally yanked on her hair, sounding confused and grumpy and still half-asleep, and Draco grinned as he hooked the last few strands of hair out of his mouth. He hadn't been this happy in over two months. Six weeks in a cell being tortured, and three weeks being Voldemort's slave. Merlin, it seemed like it had been so much longer. It seemed like _years_. He cleared the unpleasant thoughts from his mind and tugged lightly on one of Hermione's tangled curls.

"Your hair was trying to eat me again."

"Draco!" she cried and sat bolt upright, scaring the living shit out him and making him instinctively twist on the bed and snatch for his wand on the bedside table, before realising he didn't need it.

"Draco?" she asked cautiously, her hand closing around his wrist, and he stared over his shoulder at her, both their eyes wide – she dazed and he slowly processing the fact that no, there was no danger, he didn't need his wand, he should put it down – carefully – before he accidentally stunned Hermione or something.

"Sorry," he said lamely, and let his wand drop back to the bedside table, sinking back to the pillows and feeling stupid; reactive, trigger-happy - unstable. He wondered how long it would take him to get past that instinct. Maybe only a few weeks – or maybe it'd take a few years. It was hard to know. His heart was still pounding as he tried to collect himself, and Hermione put her ear to Draco's chest, one hand smoothing down over his stomach like he was a wild animal she was trying to calm, waves of contentment pouring off her.

"It's fine," she said softly, a twist of a smile to her voice. "I just…for a minute when I first woke up I thought I was still dreaming. I thought it had all just been a dream, and – and then you spoke and I was a little surprised, I suppose."

She sighed, and her hand slid further down, and further down, until her fingers curled around Draco's limp cock; morning erection having subsided, but not for long. He could feel himself getting hard beneath her nimble, stroking fingers, and he shut his eyes, enjoyed the sensations she made curl up in him. He smiled when her lips pressed onto his, and nuzzled down, over his jaw – which was getting a little scratchy – and then nibbled at his throat, very gently. They had been careful with each other since he'd bit her in the kitchen last night – and Merlin, he felt fucking embarrassed just remembering it now. It had just been instinct. Stupid fucking instinct.

So last night Draco had screwed Hermione's fucking brains out, but he'd been acutely aware of what he did to her, what he said to her, how he touched her, and how he fucked her. It had been like learning each other all over again, and there had been a certain pleasure to that – Draco just wished that they didn't _need_ to do it. He made a low rumbling sound as her fingers tickled over his balls, and then she slithered down his body, and he cracked his eyes open just in time to see her disappear under the covers. He held them up with one hand and watched her as she bent to his cock – kneeling between his thighs, her pink tongue darting out of her mouth and swirling around the head of his…

"_Fuck_," Draco choked out, resisting the urge to buck his hips up and thrust his cock down her throat until she was gagging. He didn't think she'd react well to that, somehow. Her head sank down, mouth encompassing and hot and wet and _sucking_, tongue stroking over the head of his cock and twisting around the shaft, and his hand fisted in the bedcovers hard. "Oh…fucking_ hell_, Hermione, _fuck._"

It was unreal – to go from the way everything had been in the past two months, to _this_. Safe and sound, together in the early dawn, with her sucking his cock so bloody well it felt like he was going to fucking _explode. _If he was dreaming, Draco decided that he didn't ever want to wake up. But five minutes later, when he came in Hermione's mouth with a stifled whimper and she licked his cum from her lips with a cat-like, satisfied smile, Draco was pretty sure it wasn't a dream. His dreams were never this fucking good. Draco pulled Hermione up his body by a handful of her hair so they lay chest to chest, and kissed her deeply and lazily, and tasted himself on her lips, and her tongue.

She was blushing and awkward, embarrassed by the fact that traces of his cum were still on her lips and in her mouth, and didn't seem to understand that Draco really didn't give a fuck. He laved his tongue over her lips and she moaned and squirmed on top him, and Draco realised he was still rock hard. It might take him a while to cum; but that was all for the better. A grin shaped Draco's lips as he flipped her off him, making her squeak and clutch at him, before relaxing onto the bed limply, smiling up at him, flushed and sleepy still. Splayed on her back on the bed, Hermione was naked and luscious and _juicy. _Draco smirked to himself as he slid two fingers into her to find her soaking – _wet and so hot oh so fucking hot and tight _– and she wrapped her legs up around his back and her hands clutched at his arms, and he removed his fingers, positioned his cock at the entrance to her cunt. Draco sank into her to the hilt with a groan, and then he forgot about everything but the feel of her, and the sound of her urgent, frantic little moans in his ear with each snap of his hips.

**# # # # # #**

**Author's Note: **So, did you like? Please tell me you liked it! What did you think of it? Was the smut good? Hot? Was their serious/awkward conversation all right? Do you like how I'm writing Draco? He's pretty much the same, but since they got captured – and especially since the Imperius – he's kind of been hardened a little, I guess, as often happens when someone fights through traumas like torture and resisting the _Imperius _and so on. But anyway, he's a little different now, imo anyway :)

Please review and let me know what you thought!

(Writing Draco with two hands is really freaking weird, btw – he just doesn't seem 'right' to me with two hands now, after so long writing him with just the one :p )

Next chapter: more happy reunion things, but with slightly more of a focus on practical and/or awkward aspects of what's happened to them, and possibly on the state of the war.


	11. Forget To Fall Down

**Author's Note: **Thank you so much to everyone who had reviewed! I'm so sorry I haven't gotten back to you and thanked you all personally, but RL has been busy, so it was either take time out of what little time I have for writing at the moment to thank you for your reviews, or just write the damn story. I thought you'd prefer I worked on the next chapter, so I did, and I'll just say a huge _thank you! _here :)

This chapter made me smile a lot while writing it and the song I listened to a lot while writing (the quoted song) has a lovely dreamy feel that I think suits it wonderfully. It's about as fluffy as I'll ever get, I think. I hope you'll enjoy!

**Trigger Warnings for discussion of trauma resulting from torture and rape.**

**# # # # # #**

_**8. Reunion, Part Two: Forget To Fall Down**_

_I missed your skin when you were east_

_You clicked your heels and wished for me_

_Through playful lips made of yarn_

_That fragile Capricorn_

_Unravelled words like moths upon old scarves_

_I know the world's a broken bone_

_But melt your headaches, call it home_

_Hey moon, please forget to fall down_

_Hey moon, don't you go down_

_[Northern Downpour, Panic! At The Disco]_

**# # # # # #**

"Morning," Tonks said as she juggled eating her cereal and nursing Teddy at the same time, caught in a sunbeam at the tiny kitchen table, her hair the same gold as the morning light. Her eyes swept over Hermione and Draco, taking in every inch of them, and an amused and knowing smirk hovered just behind the cheerful smile she gave them. It was ten in the morning, and they were both still un-showered and mussed, in the same clothes they'd worn last night – only Hermione had nicked off with Draco's cotton boxer shorts to wear like ordinary shorts over her knickers, so she was _decent_. Draco had eyed her very intently when she'd said that, and said that looking at her in his tee-shirt and boxers did _not_ inspire decent thoughts in him; only utterly obscene ones – his lazy smirk making her stomach turn somersaults.

Draco glared sleepily at Tonks and made a non-committal sound in response, slumping down at the kitchen table across from Dean, who was in the process of shovelling porridge into his mouth at a speed worthy of Ron. Dean mumbled a good morning barely audible through his mouthful, hair sticking up in all directions and still looking half-asleep, and Draco groaned and grumbled something back while Hermione watched the exchange with amused eyes.

"Morning," she said to everyone with a cheerful smile and headed for the teapot, dragging her fingers through her hair and trying not to feel awkward dressed the way she was, with everyone knowing so _blatantly _what she and Draco had been doing. At least the privacy charms meant they hadn't been able to hear. Seamus was leaning lazily up against the bench, an apple in hand, crunching away with satisfaction. He made a grunting noise and waved the apple at Hermione in greeting.

"I've already got the kettle on," he said helpfully around a half-chewed mouthful of apple, and Hermione wrinkled up her nose at him and pulled extra mugs out of the cupboard for her and Draco, rinsing the dust of storage out of them.

"Got any coffee?" Draco asked as he blinked blearily at Hermione and Seamus, the bruises over his nose and beneath his eyes vividly black and purple in the sunlight and making him look terrible.

"Sorry Malfoy," Seamus spoke up around a chunk of apple, and Hermione wondered why his parents hadn't taught him to eat with his mouth shut. "I had a look in the larder last night when we got here but couldn't find any. Just loads and loads of tea."

"Huh," Draco grunted and ran his hands through his hair, the silver one catching the sun and glinting bright, and Hermione watched him with a happy, aching pang in her heart, and a smile stretching her lips until her cheeks hurt – but she couldn't wipe it away. He was here, and he was real, and he was _safe_. It was like all her Christmases had come at once, and Hermione couldn't help being ridiculously happy. She stifled a yawn, turning and squinting out the windows and seeing nothing but endless fields scattered with a few copses of scraggly trees off in the distance.

"Where are we?" she asked Seamus quietly, turning and mimicking his pose leaning back against the kitchen bench, and he took another bite of his apple and shrugged. "Dunno. Nice enough place though, I s'pose. Lovely and peaceful."

Hermione asked him about what he knew about Harry, Ron, Ginny and Cho and all the others, and if they were all right, and what on earth was going on and what the Order was going to do next. Seamus didn't know much, but he told her what he did know, and they chatted quietly while the kettle began to boil.

"Do you know how long we're going to be staying here?"

"A couple of days, I think. Harry said something about him, Lupin and Shacklebolt having to take a few days to lay plans, and let everyone recuperate. Maybe a week." Seamus grinned. "Bit of a holiday, huh?"

"Hmm. That sounds…nice. Except that Voldemort isn't exactly going to wait around while we rest up, is he?"

Seamus gave a noncommittal shrug, taking another enormous chunk out of the apple and chewing with his mouth open, and Hermione looked away pointedly. "God, you eat like _Ron_. That's _disgusting,_ Seamus"

"Do not,."

"You do too! Close your mouth when you eat!" He stared at her, leaning forward and exposing her to a mouthful of half-chewed apple before deliberately snapping his jaw shut, and snorting at her irritated expression, and then nearly choking when she elbowed him sharply in the side and glared at him.

"I want to find out what's going on," she said quietly after another moment. "I hope someone comes by soon to let us know what's happening. I hate being left in the dark."

"Someone'll probably come by today," Seamus said, as if it didn't really bother him whether he knew what the situation was or not; an attitude Hermione couldn't get her head around. They'd just been driven out of Godric's, their main base of operations, and had been scattered all over the countryside with absolutely no idea what was happening – it bothered her greatly. But at least Draco was here – every cloud had a silver lining, she thought absently, and surprised herself with the re-emergence of her optimism, which had been deeply buried since their capture.

"You look like shite," Dean commented to Draco, and Hermione paused in mid-sentence to watch Draco sneer at the Gryffindor, his obvious exhausted grogginess ruining the intimidating effect he was going for.

"What a surprise, Thomas. I wonder _why_." Draco was immediately defensive and bitingly acerbic, far more antagonistic than he'd been with Dean and the others before they'd been captured, and Hermione wondered why. Maybe he was just tired; they hadn't gotten a lot of sleep last night, and even when she'd finally started to drift off, he'd still been wearily wide-awake. She remembered stirring to half-consciousness at one point in the early hours to find the bed empty, and him a statue-still silhouette by the window, one hand pulling the curtains back just enough to look out on the faintly moonlit night, his wand clutched tight in his hand. She had sleepily told him to come back to bed, but he'd shaken his head and said; _I can't sleep – it doesn't feel safe._ She had meant to say something else – to argue and persuade – but sleep had dragged her back down again before she could formulate any coherent words.

"Just saying, Malfoy. No need to bite my bloody head off." Dean was looking at Draco in surprise, leaning back in his chair, and a sudden stillness filled the air, broken only when Seamus moved to take the whistling tea kettle off the stove. Draco clenched his jaw and looked away, hair nearly white in the sun and falling long and pale over his eyes. He sighed heavily. "Didn't mean to snap, Thomas. Don't take it personally. I haven't exactly had the best week. Or month."

"S'all right, mate," Dean said magnanimously, but kept looking a little warily at Draco, seemingly taken aback by both Draco's initial biting sarcasm, _and_ his half-apology.

"So, how's your arm, Hermione?" Tonks asked loudly, breaking the lingering tension between Draco and Dean, and Hermione jerked her head up and lifted up her arm – strapped in bandages and tender, but it had been a clean break and was pretty well usable already, if sore. Skele-Grow worked wonders – if Hermione had broken her arm as a Muggle, she would have had to spend weeks with it in a cast. "Much better, thanks. How are…you?"

"I've taken far worse, Hermione," Tonks said, canting her head to one side and shrugging casually with a grin, tugging her shirt back into place as baby Teddy let out a little snuffly snore in her arms, milk-sated and fast asleep. "I'm fine."

Seamus shoved a cup of tea at Hermione, and she nodded in thanks, an air of awkward domesticity in the room. It felt far more _intimate_ and homey with just the five of them and Teddy – Hermione supposed the Auror, Dolt, was still around somewhere, but he wasn't part of this strangely tense and yet familiar atmosphere. It wasn't like Godric's, where they had a whole houseful of people, and there was all busy activity going on; this cosy little cottage was…different. Nice.

Hermione stayed leaning against the bench as she sipped at her tea, something restful and contented swelling through her bones and making her feel solid and warm as she watched Seamus shove a mug across the table at Draco, and get a nod of thanks in response. It was _really _nice. The sun fell hot on her back, and Draco watched her silently over the rim of his mug as he drank his tea, the only sound for a while Teddy's snuffles and Seamus' chewing, but the quiet was oddly peaceful and companionable.

**# # # # # #**

"Ron!" Hermione cried in delight and relief, dropping her breakfast spoon and standing as he strode into the kitchen looking dead tired but whole and unharmed, his hair a thatch of messy red that stuck up in crazed, dirty-looking spikes, his clothes a pair of holey old jeans and a black tee-shirt, his wand holstered at his hip. It was nearly lunchtime, and they'd all been wondering when someone was going to come by and let them know what was happening. Dean and Seamus would be disappointed that they hadn't been here when Ron came by; they had buggered off to explore the house and its surrounds while Hermione and Draco had a very late breakfast.

"Hermione!" Ron greeted her with pure relief in his voice, making a beeline for her and her for him, and they met at the end of the table, his arms crashing around her, lifting her right up onto her tip toes with the enthusiasm of his hug and squeezing the breath straight out of her. He smelt like smoke and sweat and old blood, and when he released her and stepped back with his hands gripping her shoulders firmly, she saw bags beneath his eyes and hard lines around his mouth. He didn't look like he'd slept at all.

"You right, 'Mione?"

"Fine. You? Cho? Harry and –"

Ron's mouth flattened further. "Harry and Ginny and the others are fine." Hermione's stomach lurched. "Cho…?" she asked him faintly, fear suffusing her, and Ron hissed and rubbed a hand over his eyes.

"Cho got hit by a curse. A nice little slow-acting one that she didn't even realise she'd taken at first. But an hour after we got out of Godric's she started burning up with fever, and a few hours after _that,_ the curse was trying to cook her alive from the inside out."

"Oh _Ron_, is she…?"

"Alive. The Healers were able to save her – barely." Ron swiped a hand over his eyes, which were wet with unshed tears, and he looked older than Hermione had ever seen him, all filled with worry and anger for his wife. He dragged in a rough breath and looked away from Hermione, blinking hard as he tried to regain his composure. And his eyes fell on Draco, sitting silently at the table watching the little scene unfold, and anger shaped Ron's face. He turned to face Draco fully, and Hermione felt dread come over her, because she knew what was coming – and Tonks wasn't down here to yank Ron back into line with a sharp word – she was upstairs taking the chance to nap while Teddy slept, still exhausted from the _Cruciatus_ and a disturbed night with Teddy, who had been fractious and unsettled.

"Ron…" she tried weakly, but he waved her sharply off with a hand, leaning down and resting his knuckles on the table, leaning toward Draco, who met Ron's eyes without a word, his face cold and composed.

"You led them there. You led them to Godric's." There was a deep seething anger behind Ron's words, and Hermione bit her lip, not sure what to do. He was angry because Cho had nearly died, and he had every right to be angry and upset about that – but Draco had been under the _Imperius_; he couldn't help what he'd done while under its influence.

"I'm sorry about Cho, Weasley. I'm glad she's all right." Draco said quietly, a totally unexpected apology, and Ron jerked his head back like Draco had smacked him one, freckles standing out lividly against his drawn, pallid complexion. "All right? She's _not_ fucking all right. The curse damaged her organs…nearly killed her…they don't know yet if she'll ever be able to have _children_ because of the damage to her – her – bloody _hell_, Malfoy, didn't she fucking suffer enough when _your father_ took her leg? And now…"

Hermione sucked in a breath of horror and sympathy, because she knew just how much having children meant to Ron – and Cho too – and Draco rocked back in his chair from the force of Ron's anger and pain, just as pale as Ron now and lips clamped tightly together as if he was stopping himself from saying something he'd regret.

"And now _you led the Death Eaters to us_," Ron snarled, thudding his fist down on the table. "You fucking well brought them to Godric's, and thanks to _you_, _my wife_ nearly died. She might not ever be able to…"

Draco gulped, ashen, grey eyes horribly wounded. "I'm sorry, Weasley. I'm so fucking sorry that Cho –"

"And look at you, sitting there perfectly fucking well. Not a bloody thing wrong with you." Ron was scaldingly bitter, and Hermione was frozen to the spot, not sure _what _to do, afraid that whatever she did would just make things worse, because how was she supposed to calm Ron down after what had happened to Cho? There wasn't anything she could say to make that better, and she doubted he'd listen to reason – to the fact that Draco hadn't had any _choice_ about leading the Death Eaters to Godric's.

"You've even got a brand new hand. It'd be nice if Cho could have a new leg like that. I guess she doesn't deserve it, because she didn't kill and torture enough people to get a reward, like I'm pretty sure you must've. Loyalty to _the Dark Lord _– that's why he gives out limbs, isn't it? What did you do, Malfoy? Kill people? Torture them? Rape them?"

Hermione grabbed Ron's arm as soon as she realised what he was going to say, trying to drag him back, hissing, "Shut up, Ron, shut up shut up _shut up!_" Because if there was one thing that Draco wouldn't react well to right now, it was accusations that he'd done to someone what had been inflicted upon him. But it was too late – Ron had said the words and Draco heard, and his chair went tumbling back as he shoved himself to his feet, an icy hatred in his eyes as he sneered across the table at Ron.

"Shut your _fucking_ mouth, Weasley. I'll stand here and let you call me a murderer, and accuse me of torturing people, if it makes you feel better about what happened to your wife, because I _did_ do those things _while I was under the Imperius –_" Draco emphasised dangerously. "– but don't you _ever _accuse me of – of _that_. _Never_. Understand me?"

"Did I hit a nerve, Malfoy?" Ron mocked, and Hermione gasped and yanked at Ron's arm again, and Draco swallowed hard and his silver hand flexed, making a strange soft metallic sound as he squeezed it into a tight fist.

"Ron, shut up! Don't –" Hermione started frantically, sick at what was happening between the two people that she loved – neither of whom were technically at fault – but Ron just shook her arm off roughly and whirled on her. "I don't care if you fucking love him, 'Mione. Because of him, Cho almost _died_, while he's been off murdering and torturing and _raping_ people, just like a good little Death Eater. Why else would Voldemort give him that pretty hand? Why else, unless he was doing what Voldemort wanted?" Ron snarled and Hermione could _hear_ Draco's teeth grinding together.

"He was under the _Imperius_, and he never –"

Ron seized her arm and leaned down to her, grabbing too hard in his anger and making Hermione wince. "I would _never _have done that. _Imperius_ or not, I would _never _murder or torture or rape innocents. Never. Because I have some fucking _honour. _Because I'm a good person. But then Malfoy isn't –" Ron broke off as Draco's hand clamped on Ron's shoulder, jerking him stumbling away from Hermione.

"Don't fucking touch Hermione like that. _Ever_. And stop saying I – that I – _stop it_, Weasley." Draco shivered a rough, angry sound, nearly shaking, his eyes iced over and flat with hurt and horrible memories, and Hermione wanted to slap Ron just to snap him out of it – Draco didn't deserve to be Ron's punching bag. "Just _stop it._ I know you're angry, but don't fucking accuse me of things I didn't do –"

"Does it count as cheating on her?" Ron asked, lips twisted and trembling with his fury. "Does it count as cheating on Hermione if the women didn't want to, Malfoy?"

Hermione thought Draco was going to hit him then, and she wouldn't have blamed him a bit, but instead he released Ron like the redhead disgusted him, and stepped back, a vein at his temple pulsing as his jaw clenched and unclenched. He shot Hermione a look. "Tell him," he snarled at her, and for a moment Hermione thought she'd misheard, because why would Draco want Ron to know – how could _Draco_ stand having Ron know…? "Tell him just how much of a _rapist_ I am, Hermione," he snarled again, and then turned and stalked from the kitchen, slamming the door behind him so hard the room echoed with the crash. Ron made as if to go after him, but Hermione grabbed hold of his shirt, yanked him to halt.

"_Ron! _I need to talk to you," she said, mind frantically racing. He turned and glared at her, and then rubbed his hand over his face, as though he realised it at least wasn't fair to be angry with her. She didn't know what to say. Draco had been…she didn't know how he hadn't hit Ron, after what Ron had said. But he clearly hadn't been thinking straight; because why on earth would Draco want Ron to know what had happened to him, even in the vaguest sense, when he couldn't even speak about it to Hermione? But he'd said _tell him_, and maybe Ron _should_ know what he'd just done to Draco. Hermione had no bloody idea what she should do.

"Oh _god_, Ron…you idiot…" Hermione sighed, suddenly exhausted, and sank into a chair at the table, and he shot her a sharp look and started pacing the length of the kitchen, across the table from her. Up and down, up and down. "I'm sorry, Hermione, but I just – I can't bring myself to give a bloody _fuck_ that he was under the _Imperius._ What happened to Cho because of him…what he must have done while he was with Voldemort…" He paused in his pacing and his eyes bored into her. "How can you _stand_ to let him touch you, Hermione? How can you –"

"He's just as much a victim as the people Voldemort forced him to torture and kill, Ron," Hermione said forcefully, the sun feeling wrong on her back, the domesticity of just an hour ago having faded utterly. "He didn't want to kill people, and he didn't want to torture people, and he tried to fight it – and in the end, he _did _break free. I can stand to have him touch me, as you so _charmingly_ put it, because _Draco's _not the one who did those things. Voldemort is – he just used Draco as a tool against his will."

"But…"

"And he never – never raped anyone, Ron. I know that." Her voice went all strangled and twisted up, and tears stung in her eyes as she watched Ron pace back and forth, muttering angrily under his breath, but still listening to her. "I doubt anything could force him to do that. Not after what happened to him."

Ron froze. "_What?_"

"When we were prisoners…" Hermione gulped and felt faint and sick. "When we were held prisoner, the Death Eaters were going to rape me. I know – know I didn't put that in my report. I didn't put much of what happened to us in the report – it didn't seem relevant."

Ron stared horrified at Hermione. "Shit, 'Mione I didn't know. I'm so –"

"They didn't," she interrupted. "Snape – stopped them." Ron hadn't been told about Snape being on their side yet, and his eyebrows nearly crawled right up off his forehead when he heard that. "Snape stopped them from doing it to _me_." She looked at her hands, and it took all her strength to finish, "But only me." And she hoped desperately that Draco had really meant for her to tell Ron, because otherwise he would be so _furious _with her.

Ron stared at her blankly, like he was trying to figure it out, and then comprehension came over his face. "Oh _shit_. You mean…"

"Yes. Yes, that's what I mean. And you just accused him of being a rapist," Hermione interrupted, not wanting Ron to say the words. She shoved herself to her feet and stared him down, her tone scathing. "Now do you see why I tried to shut you up, and why he was so angry? Good _job_, Ron. Good bloody job."

"I didn't – I was angry – Cho –"

"I know, Ron, and that's _awful_, and I'm so sorry, and I hope she heals completely, I really, really do. But I'm rather certain Draco already feels terribly guilty, and you didn't need to rub it in by accusing him of things he couldn't help and of things he didn't do, when he was saying sorry, and I was telling you to stop!" Her voice rose to a near shriek, and Ron shrank a bit, the anger dissipating and replaced by embarrassment for his behaviour, and worried grief over Cho, his shoulders slumping and eyes dropping. "He apologised to you, Ron – which is not something Draco does easily. And I know if he could take it back, he would. Of _course_ he would – you know that just as well as I."

"I just –"

"I know. But it was wrong of you to take it out on Draco. It's not his fault. It could have as easily been him that had escaped, and me that had been kept prisoner and _Imperioed_, and would you have done what you just did to Draco to _me?_"

Ron was silent, and Hermione nodded. "I thought not. I think you owe him an apology, but for Merlin's sake, not right now. If there's nothing official to talk about, then I think you should just go."

"Hermione…"

She paused with her hand on the door handle, glanced over her shoulder. "Give Cho my love, Ron," she said gently. "I hope she makes a full recovery." And then she was out the door, and hurrying down the hallway toward the room she and Draco had claimed as their own.

**# # # # # #**

He walked. He didn't know where he was walking to – he was just walking, his strides angry and heavy, hands shoved in his pockets, watching his booted feet kick through the long dry grass of the fields. He had wanted _so badly _to just fucking _kill_ Weasley right then, but he hadn't. He hadn't because Weasley was half out of his head with anger and grief, and he hadn't known why what he was saying to Draco hurt him so much. And also, Draco hadn't tried to kill the bastard – hadn't even hit him – because Hermione would never have forgiven him if he'd killed Weasley, and because there would be no satisfaction in beating the shit out of the Gryffindor. Draco growled under his breath, furious and holding back stupid tears.

The house had fallen far behind him and he was well past the wards, which wasn't wise, but he had his wand and he didn't really give a fuck about anything right now. He was too busy cursing himself for telling Hermione to tell Weasley what Rostan had done to him; stupid, fucking _stupid_. By now, Weasley was probably hearing all the sordid, shameful fucking details, and Draco could just picture the expression of pity on the redhead's face. He hated the thought of Weasley knowing how much he'd been hurt, but he'd been furious and hurt and not thinking, and just wanted to – wanted to make Weasley feel guilty for being such a thoughtless fucker. Only Draco had ended up cutting off his nose to spite his face, because now Weasley _knew_. He _knew_.

Draco stopped at the edge of a small stream cutting through the farmland, and sat down heavily at the top of the bank, burying his head in his hands. He was coming apart at the seams. The three weeks he'd spent under the _Imperius _had felt like months, and the time of imprisonment and torture before that had felt like _years_, and now he was free and out and it was _over_, but it didn't _feel_ like it was over. Oh, it had last night, when he'd lost himself in Hermione, and again this morning when they'd shagged, but every single second apart from those deliciously mindless moments, Draco had still been filled with the same exhaustingly alert paranoia and fear – trying to be ready for anything. He was still constantly expecting torture, or rape, or being forced to hurt or kill another innocent, or bow and scrape to the Dar – Voldemort.

The sun was bright today, scorching down on him as he braced his forearms across his knees and sank his forehead onto them, feeling the strange, slightly warmer, harder feel of the silver hand that began just above his wrist. Weasley had been right about that much; he'd paid for the hand in blood, whether he'd had a choice about any of it or not. He almost wished he didn't have the damned thing – _almost_, but part of him was _grateful_ and that burnt at him. He pictured the faces of the five innocent people he'd killed while under the _Imperius_, and the two Death Eaters, and the several dozen people he'd tortured in one way or another, and he felt sick to his stomach with guilt, and anger, because _he hadn't been able to help it_. Only maybe Weasley had been telling the truth when he'd said he'd never do that kind of thing – maybe Ronald Weasley _would_ have been able to resist the Curse altogether. Not they would ever find out; it was all academic.

Draco got thirsty after a while, but the half decomposed carcass of a water rat he spotted in the stream trapped and half-hidden in a build up of leaf matter and small branches dissuaded him from drinking it – even after a purifying charm he'd still feel too disgusted. He knew he should head back to the cottage – that Hermione was probably looking for him – but he couldn't be bothered. The sky was clear blue and scattered with drifts of clouds, the grass was greens and yellows and waving in the breeze, and the stream gurgled and wound muddily along its path. It was rather pretty, and so quiet – all alone out in the middle of nowhere, the house a little dot on the horizon behind him, he'd walked so far. The only blot on the scenery was the rotting corpse of the water rat, which Draco absently thought was really rather appropriate, somehow.

There was always death and decay – it was everywhere, if you looked hard enough, marring otherwise perfect places. It seemed like it would make good metaphor for something meaningful and important.

And then Draco heard the sound of legs swishing through the grass, and then Hermione's voice as she hissed in pain and grumbled something under her breath. He didn't look around, and in another moment she was sitting beside him, still dressed in just his shirt, boxer shorts and cloak – her feet bare. She pulled one foot up onto her lap, and shot him a quick look that he noticed out of the corner of his eye. She didn't say anything though; just examined the sole of her foot carefully, a grimace on her face.

"Ouch."

He sighed. "What's wrong?"

"I stepped on something, and I can't get it out," she said pathetically, and their eyes met and she tipped one side of her mouth up in a little smile that Draco found himself automatically returning, a trickle of happy warmth running through him.

"Let me see," he said and she shoved her foot up by his face, the sole all dusty and dirty, and he recoiled and she snorted a short laugh at his expression. "C'mere – don't kick me in the bloody face." He grabbed her foot and shifted it so he could get a good look in the light – found a tiny prickle beneath the skin in the ball of her foot by her big toe, and then looked her in amused exasperation as he pulled his wand and said pointedly, "_Accio _foreign object in Hermione's foot."

The prickle flew straight out and Draco he put his hand up, let it land in his palm. "Brightest witch of our age?" he queried dryly, and raised an eyebrow, and Hermione glared at him and thumped him lightly. "Thanks." She bumped her shoulder against his, settling closer to his side, and he slid his arm around her waist, her head settling heavy against him. "I didn't know where you'd gone. You worried me. We aren't supposed to come this far beyond the wards."

"I needed to get away. It was that or attempt to murder the arse, and that didn't seem very fair to you, or the bastard's poor wife."

"I'm sorry – about Ron. He was an utter git. I don't care _how_ upset he was about Cho, it's not your fault. Not in the slightest. _Nothing_ that you did while under the _Imperius_ was your fault," Hermione said very forcefully, and then cleared her throat, shifted uncomfortably. "And, I, ah…" She flicked him a nervous look. "I told him."

Draco let out a puff of breath and nodded slowly; that was what he'd been expecting, but dread still swept over him.

"You wish I hadn't."

Draco stared at the water rat's body vaguely – the draggled half-rotted away fur, and the exposed teeth, one paw missing altogether – and shook his head. "No. I wish I hadn't told you to tell him. I don't blame you for doing what I said, but…fuck. I don't need him fucking staring at me with pity and knowing what…" His voice cracked with anger and he didn't finish the sentence, tension making his shoulders hunch up and the muscles in his jaw ratchet tight. Her hand twisted into his, warm and firm, her thumb stroking over his, over and over.

"I didn't tell him anything specific. I was extremely vague – as vague as I could be while still making Ron realise what I meant. I just intimated that he was accusing you of doing something that you'd actually suffered through, and that he owed you an apology."

"Fucking hell. He's not coming to apologise _now_ is he?" Draco asked, looking around nervously, half-afraid Weasley was going to pop up behind them any minute and spit out a resentful, meaningless apology and Draco was finally going to lose it on him.

"No. I told him to go away, once I'd given him a piece of my mind," Hermione said. "He seemed to feel pretty bad about what he'd said though, once he realised," she added quietly, and then silence fell again. Neither of them made a move to go back into the safety of the wards; it was so peaceful sitting here by the stream, and Hermione's head was warm and heavy on his shoulder, her fingers fiddling with one of the shirt buttons, her slow, even breaths puffing hot against his chest through the cotton of his shirt. It was very, very peaceful.

**# # # # # #**

"I tried to kill him, you know," Draco said after a very long silence, and Hermione blinked – drowsing half-asleep on his shoulder. She straightened a little, making him aware that she was listening, but not saying anything yet. "He tried to – again…except this time I had a wand, and I could defend myself."

_Rostan_, Hermione thought, and winced, hurt for Draco pushing blunt and painful through her chest. She reached her hand back to her side and folded her fingers around those of his silver hand where it curled around her waist, and squeezed tightly.

"I tried to kill him, but I couldn't." His voice was dreamy-drowsy and very far away, and Hermione looked up. He licked his lips and swallowed. His eyes had caught the sun and shone very pale, and he was staring fixedly at a point in the stream, where leaf matter and other debris had clumped up against a stone that jutted out of the water.

"Why not?" she asked softly, not thinking Draco would be the type to have a sudden crisis of conscience over ending horrible scum like Rostan, and curious as to his reasoning. He didn't answer, so Hermione guessed, grasping blindly for why. "Were you…trying to take the high road?" It sounded stupid even as she said it, and Draco smirked down at her and snorted, no longer so far away when he said, "No. Do you really think _I'd_ do anything so noble? No. The _Imperius _wouldn't let me."

"I'm sorry…"

"It's all right. I'll kill him the next time I see him," Draco said calmly, and Hermione felt a chill dance up her spine as a cloud cast over the sun. His eyes were fixed back on the same spot in the stream, and Hermione squinted at it, trying to see what Draco found so fascinating.

"Oh my god, that's a dead _rat!_" she blurted disgustedly when she saw it, disguised amongst the debris, and Draco laughed and she looked at him oddly, worried. "It's not _funny_. It's gross."

"It's _interesting_," he corrected her, and drew his arm from around her, folded his arms up over his knees – which were drawn up to his chest – and rested his chin on his forearms, staring intently at the carcass. Hermione sat beside him quietly; it was only mid-afternoon, and there was no pressing need to get back to the cottage – and despite the dead rat and Draco's odd mood, it was quite lovely, sitting there with the breeze and the sun. She sat tailor-fashion, cloak a barrier between her bare legs and the scratchy tufts of grass on the edge of the bank, plucking shoots of grass seed and delicately stripping them, sneaking surreptitious glances at Draco now and then.

"He called me a whore." Draco nearly whispered the words, but they cut through the air just the same. He was still resting his chin on his forearms and staring down at the damned dead water rat, his expression strangely vacant, eyebrows scrunching down very slightly, lips chapped and dry. Hermione tried very hard to keep breathing normally, and not flinch or gasp or otherwise react badly.

"Well he's a murdering, sadistic piece of scum; I don't find it surprising that he's a liar as well," she said very matter-of-factly, and a corner of his mouth twisted up in a surprised smile, which disappeared just as quickly as it came.

"But he's not," he said, sounding very small and ashamed, and Hermione felt her chest get all tight at his tone. "He's not a liar. I – I was…I _was_. _Am._"

Draco kept his eyes fixed on the dead rat and his features mostly composed, but the words flowed out of him, soft and disjointed and filled with a terrible shame that made Hermione want to shake him and scream at him because he shouldn't be feeling like this. He hadn't done anything wrong. He'd just tried to survive. Hermione listened.

"_Everything_. They did everything. Made _me_ do everything to them. Fuck. _Fuck. _I don't want to talk about the d-details – I don't think I need to. It was…e-everything you can imagine, and probably some things that you can't. All the filthy, sordid, painful, violating acts imaginable, and they did it all to me. _Me_. I was just…a toy to them; something to hurt and to play with, until they got bored. I was just a – a nothing. A fucking piece _arse_ for them to occupy themselves with." His breath shuddered out and his fists clenched convulsively, and Hermione just listened in abject horror as he went on and on, like he couldn't stop himself.

"I used to think that I was someone important, you know? Back at Hogwarts, before sixth year – before everything really went to shit – I thought I was so fucking above everyone else. I was a _Malfoy_. A pureblood. My father was Lucius Malfoy, and woe betide anyone who tried to fuck with me. I was a bigoted little arsehole, and I thought I was so powerful, and so superior, and _I _was the one who got to hurt others and strip away their meagre façades of power with nasty words and little hexes and jinxes, and other kinds of bullying. I wanted to make the other students – including _you_ –" Draco admitted in a low voice, "– know that they had no power – that I could essentially do whatever I wanted to them, and they couldn't do a thing about it." He blinked away tears. "Ironic, how things turned out, isn't it? Some people might call what Rostan and the others did to me _justice_."

"No," Hermione whispered, blinking back tears of her own. "No, it's not justice, Draco. It's not even _close_. It's…" She ran out of words, but he didn't, his voice flowing on and on like the stream, inexorable. Rising and falling and cracking at times, but the air was heavy with his confessions, and each word brought Hermione closer to the verge of crying, or shaking him to stop him saying such awful things about himself, or trying to come up with a miraculous fix for everything. But the first two wouldn't help him, and the last one wasn't possible. So she just sat and listened, glancing at Draco's face occasionally – sharp and drawn, and curiously colourless against the scenery around him, making him seem like a ghost on the landscape; grey eyes, white cheeks, pale, dry lips, and platinum hair blowing and falling over his eyes in drifts with the breeze.

"And I – I – in the end I just stopped fighting them. Stopped resisting at all. I let him do – let them _all_ do whatever they wanted. I – in the end I knew what they wanted and I gave it to them, without even a token struggle. They took me away and they tortured me until I was screaming and begging them to stop, and then they cut me down and I did whatever they wanted. Willingly – I did it all _willingly_, in the end, Hermione. _Eagerly_ even, because at least it meant no more torture, and because – because if I didn't make them…_happy…_they'd just hurt me more…but…but I was a…I was what he said. I _am_ what he said." Draco looked at her with wounded eyes, and Hermione felt so cold under the sun.

"You're not. You're not. Not ever." She struggled for the words, and only meaningless clichés came to her mind, but she said them anyway, because she had to try. "That's what he wanted you to believe. What they _wanted_ you to think. That's how they truly try to break you, isn't it; by making you believe that you deserved it, somehow. That it's tainted you, somehow."

Draco heaved in a breath and was silent for a moment, and then turned his eyes to hers. "And it hasn't? It hasn't tainted me?" He sounded dryly bitter and disbelieving, and Hermione shook her head hard. "No. It hasn't."

Awkwardly she twisted so she was kneeling, her legs feeling stiff and sore from being folded beneath her for so long, and Draco watched her silently; let Hermione lay her hand on his cheek and press her mouth against his. A chaste kiss, their eyes open and locked together, and then he exhaled hard and his head sank to her shoulder, face burying in her neck. Hermione's knees ground into the dirt and spiky grass, and her back ached and a cramp started in one foot, but she knelt there without complaint, without a word – her arms around his shoulders and her cheek pressed against his head, until finally his shoulders stopped shaking, and his ragged breaths slowed and eased. Wet, red-rimmed eyes met hers at last, and Draco smudged away the tears, half-embarrassed, cleared his throat and swore quietly under his breath.

"Thank you," he said after a moment, voice rough and gruff and embarrassed, and then, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…" A pink flush crept over his cheeks, and Hermione smiled at him and kissed the corner of his mouth, her thumbs swiping away the remnants of his tears. "Don't be sorry," she murmured, kissing the corner of his mouth again, and he caught her lips, kissed her deeper. Like he was reasserting himself, Hermione thought with half her mind as his hands swept up beneath her shirt to play with her breasts, his tongue and lips on hers, gentle but firm. Like he was working to erase what he perceived as weakness in crying on Hermione's shoulder like that, and she didn't think he had anything to feel weak about, but she let Draco do what he needed to, her head swimming and her skin all prickling and hot with want for him.

They were both silent as Draco laid Hermione back on her cloak and slid her borrowed boxer shorts and her knickers down her legs, unbuttoning his trousers and letting his cock spring free. She looked up at his face, silhouetted against the sun and the clear blue sky, lying there on her back on the cloak with her shirt pushed up to expose her breasts and his hands running over her body, his mouth following in their wake. The air was cool and made goosebumps shiver over her bare skin, but Draco's mouth and the sun were hot. He fitted himself between her splayed legs at last, his lips and teeth and tongue at her throat and making her shudder and arch her hips up to bump against his erection. Hermione was so wet her juices were seeping down onto her cloak beneath her as Draco dragged his fingers between her folds, teasing and exploring, and then a moment later he slid his cock into her, filling her up with himself so deliciously…and the silence was filled with soft moans and rough gasps as he thrust into her.

When they walked back to the house Draco seemed lighter to Hermione, as if the weight had been lifted off his shoulders, and he held her hand with his real, flesh and bone one, squinting into the sun, hair fluttering pale over his face, and she felt happier than she had in so, so long. Just the two of them, kicking through the long grass, alone under the sun in the empty fields, him glancing down at her occasionally, grey eyes smiling as his lips curved up, and Hermione could almost believe that the war was over, and this was another time. A future in which everything was as perfect as it could be, and the past was far, far behind them – a sad past, filled with sad memories, but pale and insubstantial compared to the squeeze of his fingers on hers, and the delicious tenderness between her legs, the vivid blue of the bowl of the sky, arcing out above them and filled with cloud and sun that made everything else fade away.

**# # # # # #**

"Wha?" Hermione blinked and recoiled from the face hovering above her bed. It was Tonks, her shoulder-length hair a vivid green and hanging about her face as she leant over Hermione, cradling Teddy in her arms, a sleeping bundle of blanket and baby. "What's going on?" Alarm threaded through Hermione as she sat up, holding the sheet up to her chest, and grabbing her tank top off the bedside table, pulling it on. Draco kept breathing evenly beside her as though deep in slumber, curled up on his side with the blankets around his waist, the lean, scarred expanse of his back visible. Hermione doubted he was still asleep though; he woke at the slightest sound.

"Nothing's wrong, everything's fine," Tonks assured her in a whisper. "I'm sorry to wake you, Hermione, but I have to go see Remus, and Teddy hates apparating and I'd rather not have to take him anyway, because we'll be talking about the war and I can't afford to be distracted and–" Tonks began, staring down at Hermione beseechingly, and she nodded immediately, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and yawning, trying to wake herself up properly. "Of course, Tonks," she mumbled. "I'm always happy to watch Teddy for you."

"I expressed some milk and put cooling charms on it – a couple of bottles in the kitchen, if he gets hungry. And there are nappies in the bag in our room, and if he gets too grumpy, just send Dean or Seamus to get me – I'll be at Aberforth's with the others," Tonks rattled off in whisper, and Hermione nodded along intently, listening to the slew of instructions with a hidden smile; she'd looked after little Teddy enough by now that she knew how to mind him. But Teddy was about the only thing in her life that Tonks got madly flustered over – most of the time she was cool as a cucumber, if unbelievably clumsy, but when it came to Teddy she was a classic worrier.

"We'll manage, Tonks. Just let me get dressed and –"

"No, no, it's fine, don't get up. He's dozing anyway – if I tuck him up in bed with you he might just go properly back to sleep and be less of a bother," Tonks said, still in a whisper, although Hermione was certain Draco was awake now – there was no way he could sleep through all this noise. Hermione held back the blanket just enough to tuck Teddy in _without _exposing the fact that Draco was stark naked to his cousin, and Tonks carefully laid Teddy between Hermione and Draco, and swept her hand lightly over the top of his fuzzy head. His eyes were shut but he smiled at his mother's touch, and made a little mewing sound.

"Thanks, Hermione. I shouldn't be long – just a couple of hours. Remember, just send Dean or Seamus if you need me," Tonks said and Hermione nodded and smiled, unwrapping the swaddling blanket from around Teddy and tucking the bedcovers up to his chest. "It's fine, Tonks. I love minding Teddy. We'll take good care of him. Don't worry."

Tonks hurried out of the room, hair turning a deep, dark burgundy as she shut the door quietly behind her with a last grateful look at Hermione, who yawned and lay back on the pillows, twisting onto her side and staring at the baby, who was dozing just as Tonks had said. He was still little enough that he'd sleep pretty much through anything if he was tired. He was adorable; his tuft of fine hair a mousey brown in his sleep, and his little rosebud mouth all pursed up as he made sucking motions. Hermione brushed a finger over his fisted hand, and his fingers sprang open and gripped hers surprisingly hard, and she grinned.

"I know you're awake," she told the back of Draco's head, and his steady, deep breathing stopped. "You can't fool me, _Slytherin_," she added and grinned as he rolled over – carefully so as not to disturb Teddy – and his grey eyes met hers, sleepy and a little annoyed.

"You let Nymphadora dump her child on us."

"I _know_ you think he's adorable."

"I may or may not think the child is adorable – but that is not the point," he said snippily, but a smile threatened to break through his frown. "I wanted to spend the morning fucking you, and instead I end up with an infant cock-blocking me."

"Draco! That's just…crass," Hermione laughed and blushed and planted a hand over her face, peeking through her fingers at him, and Teddy stirred and mewed drowsily.

"Shh, you'll wake him up," Draco scolded her, sounding ridiculous, and she pressed her lips together and muffled her inexplicable snorts of laughter in the pillow. And then she heard a, "Oh _shit_," and when she emerged from the pillow she saw Teddy staring up at Draco, who was leaning over the baby and frowning at him intently.

"Good one, Hermione. You woke the baby."

"Oh look – he likes you!" she said delightedly, watching as Teddy's soft fuzz of mousey brown hair turned platinum as his big eyes blinked up at Draco, and slowly turned a grey that was close to Draco's natural colour, if not precise – an infant's eyesight wasn't the best. But Hermione sucked in a breath at the similarity in colouring, and her heart suddenly squeezed. Draco was staring at Teddy, frown gone, a funny look on his face as his hand lifted as if of its own accord, and stroked down over Teddy's plump cheek. Draco's eyes were wondering and a little awed, and Hermione bit her lip, breath gone all uneven and heart beating too-quick.

"He looks just like me…"

"He likes you. Teddy only mimics people he likes to look at, Tonks said," Hermione offered quietly, and Draco glanced up at her, and the look in his grey eyes made her shiver all over.

"He looks like he could be mi– me when I was a baby…" Draco murmured softly, turning his gaze back to Teddy, who gave Draco a gummy, lopsided grin, and then blew a spit bubble. Hermione had a feeling that Draco had been going to say something other than 'me', but she let it go for now.

"You must have been an adorable baby, then," she said instead, and Draco nodded very seriously. "Oh, I was; of course. Malfoy babies are always absolutely adorable. It's a family trait. I had blue eyes until I was one though, and according to the photo albums my mother has – _had_ – at about nine months I went through a stage where I was so bloody fat it looked like someone had cast a Puffing Charm on me, which wasn't quite so cute."

Hermione grinned. "Maybe one day I'll be able to have a look at those photos. Draco Malfoy as a baby…as a five year old – I bet you were still cute then. As an eight year old? I suppose you'd started looking like an arrogant little toerag by then, because you certainly did by eleven."

He raised an eyebrow at her, thumb still tracing gently over Teddy's cheek and fingers smoothing up over Teddy's platinum blonde hair, and Hermione didn't think Draco even realised he was doing it. "Well, yes. I did look like an up-myself little brat by eight," he admitted, adding firmly, "But a very _handsome_ up-myself little brat."

"You really _did _look like a ferret when you started at Hogwarts; all pointy and sly looking," Hermione teased, propping her head up on her hand, elbow digging into the pillow as she rubbed her other hand over Teddy's fat little tummy in soothing circles and smirked at Draco.

"I'm still rather pointy, Hermione," he said with amusement, running a hand over the stubble on his jaw.

"Not so much. Your chin –" She poked it with a finger. "– isn't quite so sharp, and…well…you look different, somehow. You've grown up into a very handsome ferret."

"I dispute the ferret part, but I'm not going to argue with the handsome." Even though they were grey, a colour that didn't make Hermione think of warmth, Draco's eyes _were_ warm on her right now. Like smoke, and steam, and the hot ashes of a fire, Hermione decided, and the curl to his mouth was delectable – a composed half smirk that made her want to kiss him hard until that composure was destroyed and his face was drawn in stark lines of need, lust making his breath ragged.

"Now _you_ – when _you_ started at Hogwarts…" he began, and Hermione groaned, her dread only half-pretend, because a large part of her _really_ didn't need to hear Draco teasing her over her looks. He'd made her incredibly sensitive to her looks when she was young, and although it was silly, she didn't need to hear him saying how buck-toothed and horrible she'd looked then; even jokingly. Because it hadn't been joking when he'd said it at the time. "Don't, Draco – I _know_ you thought I looked hideous," she interrupted, trying to sound light and teasing, but the words came out more serious than she'd meant them to, and he gave her a _look_, eyebrows scrunching together.

"Actually…" he started reluctantly, looking down at Teddy instead of her and chewing nervously at his lip before he continued, "Actually, I thought you were well, relatively pretty – apart from your disastrous hair."

"You teased me _mercilessly_ over how ugly I was!"

"Of course – you were a mu– Muggleborn, and I was a bigoted, arrogant little arsehole. Of course I wasn't going to be nice to you. But I didn't really think you were _ugly_. You were just…Granger. You just looked like _you_, and because what _you_ were was a know-it-all little Muggleborn who kept beating my marks…" Draco shrugged and looked a little shamefaced, and Hermione made a disbelieving, slightly annoyed sound. "So you didn't actually think I looked awful and hideous and like a troll and –"

"To be honest I didn't really notice your looks that much at all, Hermione. I was too busy hating you." He gave her an uncomfortable glance at the turn of their conversation. "Can we talk about something else now? _Please?_"

"_Fine_," Hermione said and scowled at him, and then turned a beaming smile on Teddy, who cooed up at her as she made faces at him, and tickled his tummy lightly, Draco still stroking the baby's white-blonde fuzz-covered head.

Hermione could feel Draco's eyes on her as she played with Teddy, and she felt like his gaze was burning straight through her skull and into her head, as though he was desperately trying to see what snuggling with Teddy – when he looked rather like a mini-Draco – made her think. Hermione didn't know what Draco _wanted_ her to be thinking, but what she _was_ thinking, was simply, _this is nice. _So Teddy was Tonks and Remus' child and not really a mini-Draco, but it was only just dawn, and they were lying sleepily in bed with a baby between them, all snuggled up and cosy, just like an actual family. So Hermione thought to herself, _this is nice_, and, _he'd make a good dad_, and her heart swelled and wobbled a little bit in her chest as she used this peaceful little moment to extrapolate on what the future could be like.

She really hoped that one day, far, far into the future, the baby lying between them really would be theirs, and not a borrowed baby, so to speak. Because that would be _nice_. Hermione pushed up onto her hand and leaned carefully over Teddy, kissing Draco's cheek and smiling softly at him as he raised a questioning eyebrow at her, her heart all wibbly-wobbly as she pictured that perfect little future in her head.

"What are you smiling about?"

"Nothing," she said, still smiling, and shrugged. He stared at her a moment longer, and just as he opened his mouth to question her further, Teddy's face screwed up angrily, and he started to grizzle. Saved by the baby, she thought and sighed with a little relief.

"Oh _shite_. He's crying." Draco edged back from Teddy as though he was going to explode, and Hermione scooped the baby up and sat up, jiggling him in her arms, her broken arm aching a little at his weight, but not too badly. "Babies do that, Draco. He's probably hungry. His bottle is in the kitchen – could you go grab it?"

"Do I look like a ruddy nursemaid?" Draco grumbled under his breath, barely loud enough for her to hear him. "Why can't you fucking get it? You're the one who said we'd mind the bloody child." He kept mumbling to himself but threw the blankets back and got out of bed, scowling the whole time. Hermione caught snatches of words as he hunted up his trousers. "Bloody…fucking…not a…think…can just order me 'round…" Draco jerked his trousers on and stumbled out of the bedroom in search of Teddy's bottle with one last glare at Hermione, scratching at his shoulder and yawning, his hair all mussed and his bare feet padding quietly on the wood floors, and Hermione smiled after him as she rocked Teddy to ease his increasingly irritated grizzles. Sometimes Draco just looked so _normal_ and ridiculously _domestic_, and she couldn't help but grin at the absurdity of life, and the strange twists that it took.

But it was good. Very good.

**# # # # # #**

**Author's Note: **So…what did you think? I've been working on developing their characters these past few chapters and growing them a little – especially Draco, after what he's been through. So I feel he's got a more mature feel to him, as does Hermione – they're both…a little older and sadder, but more mature, maybe? I loved all of these scenes while writing them, and I'm actually really happy with how the chapter turned out in the end; I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it :)

I found Draco confessing his feeling to Hermione at the stream to be the most difficult part to write, and I hope I got that right, and it reads as genuine and in character and all. It was also really nice writing some lighter banter between Hermione and Draco for the first time in a while, and I hope it turned out all right! And domestic!Draco in the last scene? Just omg _adooorable,_ imo ^_^

Please review and let me know what you liked about the chapter! I live for your approval :p


	12. Jumpstart My Heart

**Author's Note: **Thank you so, so much to all you wonderful reviewers! I love reading your comments :) Chapter updates _might_ slow just a little, as RL is demanding more of my attention at the moment, but I should still get a chapter up a week, at least. This chapter was a bastard to write – sort of a bridging chapter, and I always feel like I suck at those so I hope it turned out okay! I listened to the quoted song, Northern Downpour, and Nine in the Afternoon while writing.

**No Trigger Warnings this time :)**

**# # # # # #**

_**9. Jumpstart My Heart**_

_Jumpstart my heart_

_Burn on through the dark_

_Poison in my blood_

_I will come undone_

_Midnight and I'm dancing with the devil_

_She whispers thoughts of pure evil_

_I see a vision of an angel_

_Gunshot pull the trigger and my heart goes_

_(I THINK I LOVE HER SO)_

_Oh, disco_

_You make my body go_

_Oh, baby_

_Look what you do to me_

_[Death Goes to Disco, Goodnight Nurse]_

**# # # # # #**

Draco should have known it wasn't going to turn out well when Potter had offered to be the one to interview him under veritaserum. Draco had hoped it would be one of the other senior Order members, but Lupin was back at the cottage, sleeping for the first time in the two days since the attack on Godric's, and Shacklebolt was off organising safehouses and Order members, and appraising everyone of what was happening. So it had been Potter, or Mr Weasley, and Draco had shrugged and said, _Potter, then_. He wished he hadn't, now.

He had apparated to the cellar of Aberforth's pub with Hermione and a few others, and sat down at a small table opposite Potter. Hermione, Thomas, Finnegan and the Auror had gone through to the Room of Requirement with Longbottom, and Draco had remained behind in the cellar. They'd used a sticking charm to glue him to his chair in case the line of questioning triggered any violent behaviour that Voldemort may have programmed into Draco without him knowing, put his wand supposedly out of reach – although Draco was pretty sure he could grab it if he was faster than Potter – and then he'd downed one of the vials of veritaserum.

Everything had gone fine at first – Potter asking him a list of dry questions about what exactly Draco had observed while he was under the _Imperius_ in Voldemort's service, and what information he had about the Voldemort's plans and the Death Eaters' organisational situation and movements at the moment. Finally, Potter had put the list down on the table between them, checked that the charmed quill had transcribed everything correctly onto the scroll of parchment. Then, he'd shot Draco a shit-eating grin, and the _real _questioning had begun.

At first Draco had tried not to answer, but the compulsion was too strong, and he didn't have a bloody choice. He'd yell for help, but that would be both embarrassing, and there was likely no one to hear him anyway. He _could_ technically stun Potter, or _confund_ him or something similar if he could get his wand, but he thought that might be considered to be an overreaction by Hermione and the others – and besides the veritaserum made Draco a little groggy anyway, so Potter would probably be able to grab Draco's wand off the table and dangle it out of reach before Draco could snatch it. He was essentially trapped; being questioned by a sadistic monster in the guise of a mild-mannered boy with spectacles and ridiculous hair that appeared to be trying to get as far away from Potter's scalp as possible.

So Draco just gritted his teeth and swore that at a later date, he was going to make Potter very, _very_ sorry.

"Do you love Hermione?"

"…Yes. Damnit! _Fuck_. Stop it, Potter!"

"Do you want to marry her?"

"Y-yes – ugh, stop asking me this shit, Potter! It has _nothing_ to do with the war!"

"Do you –"

"I swear to fucking Merlin, Potter, if you don't _shut it_ I'm going to _murder _you. Slowly."

"I'll take that chance, Malfoy. Umm…oh – do you want to have little half-blood babies with her?"

Draco fought the veritaserum; it was starting to wear off – but not enough.

"Y-y-y-yes… _Fuck you this has nothing to do the war I'm going to fucking kill you!_" Draco glared at Potter furiously, taking the chance while Potter was laughing to snatch his wand, stabbing it threateningly at the bastard as he laughed and laughed until he was nearly choking on his damn laughter. Draco hoped he choked to bloody _death_.

"Put your wand away, Malfoy, we both know you aren't going to use it," Potter gasped, wiping away tears of laughter, and Draco arched an eyebrow. "You think I won't stun you if you don't stop this – this – unprofessional, personal and irrelevant line of questioning? Because I will – I will and I'll _enjoy_ it."

"Merlin – oh god – aha – go ahead, then, Malfoy. It was worth it," Potter giggled like a child, and Draco sneered at him, bubbling up with furious irritation…and just the tiniest bit of reluctant amusement. He couldn't really blame Potter for taking advantage of his unfortunate state of truthfulness, and it wasn't like Potter had asked him anything _really_ embarrassing; but still. It was a matter of fucking principle. He swiped one of the two spare vials of veritaserum off the table and held it up, waved it at Potter, whose laughter was finally dying off.

"I'm going to give you this when you least expect it. I'm going to slip it in one of your drinks without you knowing, and you are going to be fucking _sorry_ you fucked with me."

"What are you? A Weasley twin now? Draco Malfoy: prankster. That just isn't _righ_t_._ Although to be fair, the idea – of you – and – aha. Hilarious!" Potter choked out, snorting madly at his own private – probably lame – joke, and Draco narrowed his eyes and slumped back in his chair, tucking the vial of veritaserum in his pocket and ignoring Potter's brief disapproving look as he did so.

"You. Will. Be. Sorry," Draco emphasised menacingly as Potter started giggling again, hiding his exasperated smile with a look of haughty disgust at Potter's behaviour.

"Hermione's right. You really _are _extremely childish, Potter," he jabbed casually, arching an eyebrow, and Potter gave him a sudden wounded, doubtful look. "Hermione wouldn't say that."

"Wouldn't _you_ like to know?"

"Fine. I'll just ask you then. Malfoy, did Hermione call me childish?"

"The veritaserum's worn off now, Potter," Draco said lazily, and smirked smugly at the man opposite him. He felt like poking out his tongue at the bastard, but that would be beneath him, so he just folded his arms and smirked silently.

**# # # # # #**

They'd been at the cottage for a week now; it was taking longer than expected to sort out the plans and tactics for their assault on Hogwarts, after losing Godric's Hollow, and seeing as Godric's had been the main base for the Order, everything was a bit chaotic. Or more accurately, _very _chaotic. Harry, Remus, Kingsley, Mr Weasley and Professor McGonagall, were apparating madly about the countryside trying to inform all the Order members who weren't based at Godric's what had happened, and not to send any information to the Godric's house, or visit it. They had saved their most important documents, but they'd lost a lot of information too and had several safehouses compromised, and as a result they were in no state to launch a full assault on Hogwarts. Not to mention the Room was 'playing up' according to Neville, and 'misbehaving'.

But if they had to be stuck waiting around, at least the cottage was a nice place to do it; Hermione liked the house and the rolling farmland around them, and the homier, relaxed intimacy of having less people around and no busy war activity going on, like there had been at Godric's. Seamus had been right the other day when he'd told her it would be like a holiday, because that was how it had ended up feeling to Hermione. A lovely holiday from reality.

"Merlin, that smells disgusting." Hermione wrinkled up her nose and peered into the frying pan over the stove.

"I'll have you know it tastes absolutely delicious," Dean said, half-offended. "My mum always said I made the best sausage curry ever."

"Yes, your _mother_," Draco drawled from the table, where he sat with a cup of tea that had gone stone cold long ago, a scroll and quill that he was using to jot down ideas on tactics for the planned attack on Hogwarts, and Teddy Lupin cradled comfortably in one arm. "And she has absolutely _no_ reason to be biased, does she, Thomas?"

"Oi, eff off, Malfoy. My mum is not a liar." Dean waved the wooden spoon he had been using to prod the frying sausages at Draco, and glared balefully. Hermione shook her head doubtfully, examining the half-cooked sausages sizzling in the dented cast iron pan. "I don't know. I'm _sure_ the meat smells a bit funny. Are you _certain_ it's not gone off?"

"It's fine, Hermione. It came with the rest of the groceries, and they all had cooling charms on them like usual. _Honestly_," Dean protested. "What, does one of you want to cook instead?"

"Can't," Draco said immediately, "I've got the baby," and then sucked on the end of his quill, making the feathers all bedraggled, staring intently at the parchment in front of him. Hermione smiled at Draco and then shook her head at Dean, "I cooked last night, thank you very much. I'm not cooking every night just because you boys don't want to." Tonks was even worse at cooking than the rest of them, as they'd discovered two nights ago, so she wasn't even on the cooking rotation.

"I burn water," Seamus said as he wandered in, having caught the tail end of the conversation. He sauntered over to the stove and peered at the sausages as Dean poked violently at them. "I burn it _brilliantly_, though. Christ, what're you doing to the poor bangers, Dean? They're already dead, you know."

Hermione _thought _Dean might be trying to stop them from sticking to the pan and make them brown all around, but he _was_ being rather vicious with them, and wasn't doing a very good job of it anyway. Besides, she was _certain_ they were a bit off. She wrinkled up her nose again, anticipating the five of them fighting over occupation of the one loo all night, thanks to severe food poisoning. _Lovely_. Maybe she'd pass on dinner tonight.

"You bloody well _explode_ water, Seamus," Dean pointed out with a grin, as Hermione opened the kitchen window to let some fresh air in and left Dean to his cooking, sitting at the table across the corner from Draco and trying to read what he'd scribbled down from the awkward sideways angle. She couldn't make heads nor tails of his notes, and so buried her nose in the cup of camomile tea she'd put to brewing five minutes ago, the scent of it thankfully overpowering the unpleasant smell of the meat – as long as she kept her nose in the cup. Seamus pronounced the sauce Dean tipped over the sausages 'strange looking', and Hermione stifled a laugh at Dean's overloud snort of annoyance.

"Well," Dean said indignantly, and Hermione glanced up from her cup again to see him frowning at his pan full of sausages, "Seeing as none of _you_ want to bloody well cook, stop criticising _my_ cooking."

"I _miss_ Mrs Weasley," Seamus said forlornly, with one last look at Dean's massacre of the sausages, and then sloped over to the tea pot, putting it on to boil.

"Don't we all," Draco commented absently, jiggling Teddy as he started to complain. "When the _hell_ is Nymphadora coming to collect her bloody child? My arm is getting tired and I think he needs his nappy changed. Soon. And I'm not doing it."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "She'll be back when she's back. She hasn't spent any time with Remus in three days, and she's only been gone just over an hour."

"I think he's shit himself," Draco said matter-of-factly, and then smirked at Hermione, his eyes catching the late afternoon light and sparking silver and happy, and she couldn't help grinning at him like an idiot. Since that afternoon by the stream things had been a lot better, and they were both slowly starting to relax and decompress, getting past the trauma they'd gone through. It wasn't perfect, and Hermione doubted they would ever be able to get rid of the emotional and mental scars they'd been left with. But that was okay, she could accept that. Because Draco no longer seemed like he was about to snap and go to furious, angry pieces at any moment, and she wasn't pulling her hair out anymore, and that was something. That was enough. It was hard not to be at least a little bit happy, with no missions to go out on, staying in this cosy little cottage, with Draco. With Draco; that was the important part.

"Fine," Hermione said, setting down her tea and getting up with a groan, a mock-frown and a roll of her eyes. "Give Teddy here; I'll take him and change him then."

She took Teddy off to change – having sniffed his rear and confirmed that yes; he had, as Draco so eloquently put it, shit himself. On her way out of the kitchen with Teddy up to her shoulder, she grinned as she heard Draco say with a smirk to his voice, "I'm not complaining about your cooking, Thomas – I'm sure your mother's right and your sausage curry is just _delicious_ – but I think I'll have just have a bowl of cornflakes for dinner tonight."

Dean grumbled and Draco laughed, and just as she started ascending the stairs at the far end of the lounge, Hermione faintly heard Seamus sigh heavily and say again, "I missMrs Weasley…_so much_…"

**# # # # # #**

They'd set some chairs up outside at the front of the cottage facing toward the sunset, and Draco was on his fifth beer, one behind Thomas and two ahead of Finnegan. They hadn't had a drink in a while – they hadn't had permission to apparate out to the nearest Muggle town and buy non-essentials like alcohol, so they'd had to go without. Dolt, the Auror – ridiculous fucking name – had finally taken pity on them today, and taken Finnegan side-along to the nearest bottle shop, in a tiny village near on twenty miles away. They'd had to pool funds because none of them had much Muggle money, but in the end they'd scraped up enough cash for Finnegan to return triumphant with several boxes of the cheapest beer available, and a bottle of vodka so absurdly cheap no one had been brave enough to try it yet, lest it poison or blind them.

They were drinking in near silence, only the occasional words spoken and all of them about neutral topics, like the war. Draco got along well enough living in the same house as Thomas and Finnegan and they had some strange form of rapport, but they weren't _friends _by any meaning of the word. Polite acquaintances, perhaps. He sipped at his beer and stared at the sunset; a swollen orange-red globe half-sunken below the horizon, a few scraggly trees shadowed black against the light. Finnegan and Thomas were blessedly quiet drinking partners, Hermione was inside cooking dinner – he could hear her banging and clattering around from out here – Nymphadora was upstairs with Teddy, moping because she hadn't seen enough of her husband lately, and Draco was well on his way to getting pissed. It was quite pleasant.

And then the familiar crack of apparition sounded despite the fact that they weren't expecting anyone, and Draco dropped his beer and shot to his feet, whirling around and pulling his wand, and pointing it straight at – Potter, Weasley, and Ginny Weasley. They blinked at him in surprise from the doorstep that they'd apparated onto, and Potter put up his hands in a mock show of surrender.

"It's just us, Malfoy," he said carefully, and Draco glared at the bespectacled man. "I can see that," he snapped, heart still racing, and holstered his wand, scooped up his half-frothed over beer and slumped back into his chair, trying to look utterly casual and unbothered. His face wanted to flame up at the sight of Weasley though, knowing that the redhead _knew _what Rostan and the others had done to him. Fuck. He knew. Draco gritted his teeth as he flicked foam and bits of grass of the side of his beer bottle and began drinking what was left, trying to ignore the presence of the others.

Thomas and Finnegan were loudly greeting them, and offering Potter and Weasley seats outside and a few beers. Ginny Weasley – Draco didn't know what to call her anymore, because Hermione would disapprove of Weaselette, and _Ginny _was just too friendly – said something about going inside and helping Hermione with the dinner, which Weasley laughed at, and then the front door opened and banged shut again behind her. Draco kept staring at the sunset, wondering what his chances were of being accosted for conversation if he stayed here and looked very unwilling to be disturbed, as compared to making a swift escape inside. By the time he'd decided to make a runner inside though, a shadow loomed over him. He ignored it determinedly, but it didn't go away.

"Malfoy," Weasley said uncomfortably, and Draco grimaced and stared reluctantly up at the man. He stood holding a bottle of beer and scratching at the back of his head, looking incredibly awkward. Draco glared at him silently, hoping to dissuade him, but Weasley just kept standing there, fidgeting but waiting, his nails picking and scratching at the label on his beer bottle. _Sccrape, sccrrape, sccrrape._ Draco swore inwardly and gave in, if only because it seemed like the only way to get Weasley to piss off and leave him alone. "_What?_"

"I, ah, could I speak to you…privately, for a moment, Malfoy?"

"Fine." The word wrenched out of Draco's mouth and he jerked to his feet, stalking off some distance away, hearing Weasley trail behind him. He turned around once they were out of earshot of Potter, Thomas and Finnegan, and scowled at the redhead. "What do you want, Weasley? Hurry up."

"I, ah…"

"Spit it the fuck out so I can get back to my _undisturbed_ drinking," Draco snapped, his pulse fluttering fast and nervous because he _really_ didn't want Weasley to acknowledge what Hermione had told him. It was awkward enough knowing that Weasley knew without talking about it. _Fuck_. Weasley scratched his head again awkwardly, and squinted at Draco. "Um. Sorry, all right? I was a right dick the other day, and I said some shit I shouldn't have. And I'm…I'm sorry, Malfoy. I know you don't like me much, and the feeling's mutual, but we both care about Hermione and she's not happy if we're all bloody shirty at each other, so…peace?"

Draco felt the air whoosh out of him, because that hadn't been half as bad as he'd expected – and had Weasley actually shown some _tact?_ He grinned despite himself, and stared at the hand Weasley held out tentatively for a moment, and then took it and shook once, gripping firmly. "Fine, Weasley. Peace; for Hermione's sake – not because I like you. Because I _don't._"

"Right." Weasley nodded vigorously. "For Hermione's sake," he agreed, "Because you're an irritating, arrogant git." But he was grinning down at the ground between them, and scratching at his head awkwardly again.

"And you're a _Weasley_. Need I say more?"

"Oi – screw you, Malfoy. When you insult the Weasley name, you insult my _mother_, and I know damn well you love her cooking," Weasley pointed out, heading back towards Potter and the others, and Draco smirked smugly. "True – I do love her cooking. But; she's only a Weasley by marriage, so technically I'm not insulting _her_ so much as I am you, and…"

**# # # # # #**

"The Room is getting better. It's doing really well – I'm amazed at its progress. It still can't always get what I want perfectly right, and there are scorch marks and other fire damage here and there, but for the most part, she's doing really well," Neville said in between bites of chicken, and Harry laughed at him. "Did you just call the Room a 'she', Neville?"

Neville looked embarrassed, and ducked his head self-consciously, a blush spreading over his cheeks, and Luna smiled fondly at him and patted his hand. "Neville finds the Room responds better when he thinks of the Room as an entity, and not just a thing," she said as if it was the most logical thing in the world, and Neville was a genius. Maybe he was; he was the only one who could handle the Room so well. Hermione smirked at Neville's red cheeks across the table, shoving her chicken around her plate, not finding the meat very appealing. "What is it about men and always naming their cars and boats and weapons and such after women?"

"What? Who does _that? _I know _I _don't," Ron said confusedly through a huge mouthful of half-chewed, buttery green beans, and Hermione's stomach turned at the sight of the mangled mess. "Don't talk with your mouth full, Ron!"

"Merlin, 'Mione, you're as bad as my mum." He shut his mouth though, and finished chewing before he asked, "So what's with the naming things after girls?"

"Muggles do it a lot," Harry explained succinctly, and then the crowded table fell into the near-silence of chewing and knives and forks scraping on plates; everyone seeming to enjoy dinner well enough, which was nice and gratifying, because it had been Hermione's turn to cook tonight, and she had been sure it was going to turn out terribly.

"So when do you think we'll be able to use it to move on Hogwarts?" Draco asked, sitting next to Hermione, his foot hooked around her ankle, and their thighs pressing hard together – they were all a bit cramped around the table, with Neville, Luna, Harry, Ginny and Ron around at the cottage for dinner. They could only magically expand the table so far before there was no room left in the equally tiny kitchen/dining room. Cho was still recovering from the curse she'd sustained, and she was on bed rest until further notice, but one of the _Machi _healers who was working with the Order said that Cho should make a full recovery, and that her ability to bear children shouldn't be affected, which had taken an enormous worry off Ron's shoulders.

It had been eleven long days now since the ambush on Godric's, and they would have already moved to attack Hogwarts, except the Room of Requirement wasn't allowing Neville to open a doorway into Hogwarts for some reason. They could still access the Room through Aberforth's, but no matter how much Neville tried, it kept them firmly out of the school's corridors. They weren't sure why, but Neville had been trying to figure it out. According to Luna, he'd barely gotten any sleep lately – he was too busy researching what little information could be found on the Room, and spending hours just desperately _trying_ to make the doorway appear.

"I don't know." Neville shrugged. "I think the access issue we're having is like a defence mechanism – the Room is trying to protect itself until it's healed properly – so it should only be a temporary thing."

"It wouldn't be wards on the Hogwarts side? Voldemort's people making sure we can't make use of the Room?" Draco asked, and Neville shook his head. "No – if that were the case they would have had the wards up ages ago. As it is, they think the Room is destroyed, and that they've got us on the run. I doubt they'd bother with strengthening their defences now."

"You need to figure out a way to get the Room to open into Hogwarts again _soon_, Neville. Because they _do_ have us on the bloody run, and if we can't strike back soon the Death Eaters are just going to start wearing us down, one skirmish at a time," Harry said grimly, and Hermione kept her eyes on her roast chicken, jabbing at it with her fork and trying not to let the war talk ruin what had, up until now, been a good evening.

"Let's talk about something else," Ginny said loudly, and Hermione looked up to see the younger witch give her a sympathetic smile as she nudged Harry and continued, "We can talk about the war all you want tomorrow, but right now I just want to relax and have a nice dinner with my friends for once."

"All right, Gin," Harry said and kissed Ginny's cheek lightly, and Ron made a disgusted face and a gagging noise, muttering something about _at the dinner table?_ and Ginny punched him hard in the arm and made him yelp. Draco's foot slid against Hermione's under the table as he picked tidily at his dinner, his eyes flicking over to her now and then, a faint uncomfortable flush on his cheeks as Ginny dragged Hermione into talk about weddings and dresses. Hermione didn't particularly care too much for wedding talk, really, because if she and Draco were able to get married – and she didn't let herself think about the fact that it still might not happen – then it was a long, long way off. But she supposed it was nice to talk about something unimportant and girly for a change. Besides, the awkward looks Harry and Draco exchanged as she and Ginny teased them about the possibility of a double wedding with perfectly straight faces, were absolutely hilarious.

They hadn't really had a chance to all get together since the attack on Godric's, and just relax, so they decided to make the most of it. After dinner Hermione, Ginny, and Luna disappeared into the lounge to talk, leaving the boys to clean up the kitchen, which they did grumblingly before heading outside to drink beer and watch the sunset. When the others left just before midnight, Ginny and Luna had to side-along apparate with Harry, Ron and Neville, because they were so drunk they'd splinch themselves otherwise. Dean and Seamus staggered upstairs to pass out shortly thereafter, and even Draco was wobbly on his feet as he locked the cottage door behind him.

He grinned blearily at Hermione as she watched with amusement as he had to try the locking charm three times before it worked, and then he reached out and grabbed her wrist, pulled him stumbling into the circle of his arms, grey eyes all hot and glazed on hers. He bent his head to hers and kissed her with his eyes still locked to hers, and his lips were so warm and soft and delicious…and he reeked of the disgustingly cheap vodka that Seamus had bought the other day. Hermione gulped and detangled herself from him, one hand clasped to her stomach and the other to her mouth, feeling decidedly queasy.

"You all right?" his voice was low and rough, and his fingers traced down the side of her cheek.

"Mmhmm," she nodded gingerly, and swallowed hard again, mouth watering sickly. "You – you smell like a distillery, Draco. It's awful."

"I drank the vodka," he said, eyes too wide and a stupid smirk pulling at his lips, swaying on his feet and reaching out to grab at the wall before he fell down, and Hermione realised with a laugh that Draco was completely and utterly _pissed_. She didn't know if she'd ever seen him quite so drunk while she'd still been sober – that vodka must have been potent stuff; it certainly smelt like it.

"I can _tell_ you drank the vodka," she said very seriously but a smile twitching about her mouth, dropping her hand down from it now that he wasn't oozing his alcohol stench all over her. "You're having a shower before you get in bed with me. I'm not inhaling that smell all night. Come on." She jerked her head towards the hallway, and threw concerned glances over her shoulder as he made his unsteady way after her, making sure he wasn't about to fall over and pass out on the floor.

"Was nice," he said, sounding half surprised by that fact, as she opened the bathroom door and went in, warming the shower up for him.

"What was? Getting so drunk you're going to wish you were dead tomorrow, and will beg me and promise me _anything_ if I'll just get you a hangover potion – which incidentally, we don't have."

"No, no," he said, muffled as he stripped his shirt off over his head, while Hermione watched appreciatively – he'd put on weight recently, and wasn't quite so frighteningly thin anymore, just lean, without an ounce of spare fat. "No. That bit will be fucking awful. I'm not so bloody pissed I don't realise the hangover is going to be death warmed up, Hermione." He grinned at her wryly as his trousers came down next, shoved over his hips, and Hermione leant back against the bathroom vanity and stared openly, a warm feeling suffusing her, and all tangling with desire as Draco stretched lazily, the lean muscle beneath his pale skin shifting and rippling.

"No. The –" Draco waved a hand aimlessly as he searched for the right word. "– The drinking with Potter and Weasley and the others, I mean. It was…weird…but nice. Like they…actually liked me. Draco Malfoy, pureblood bigot and ex-Death Eater." Draco frowned at Hermione as his boxer shorts fell to the floor, swaying on his feet and blinking owlishly, grey eyes wide and confused. "My life is really fucking _weird_, Hermione."

"You're drunk. So, so drunk," she said with a helpless smile, cutting him off as he started to ramble about the oddities of life, and fate, and the paths one took and choices one made, and giving him a gentle shove into the shower. "We don't have any sobriety potions, and I've never really had need to learn the charm – and if I do it wrong it'll turn you pink and make hair grow out of the soles of your feet, if I recall correctly, so I'll just go make you a cup of tea. Try not to drown in there."

Draco put his hands forward against the wall the shower head was attached to, holding himself up, the water hitting the back of his neck, head bowed and hair dripping wet as he shot Hermione a sidelong glance, a corner of his mouth curving up. He looked absolutely bloody gorgeous. "Sure you don't want to join me?" He was artless in his drunkenness, a sweet, dark tone to his slurred words, and Hermione was tempted. Very tempted. But instead she shook her head firmly. "Not until you've washed away the alcohol fumes and brushed your teeth," she said smartly, drawing the cheap plastic shower curtain across.

A hot, wet hand clasped around her wrist just as she finished pulling the curtain, and she squeaked as Draco yanked the curtain back and dragged her half into the shower, his hands clutching her wrists and wetting her sleeves, his tongue thoroughly exploring her mouth. The water trickled off him onto her, and his mouth was hot and greedy and clumsy, his teeth nipping at her bottom lip, his tongue darting over her top lip, sucking on her tongue…and she was breathless and dizzied and wet all down her front. Hermione's insides went all melty and hot and she felt a throbbing dart of lust, and then her stomach turned again as she huffed in a breath of air through her nose as smelt the disgusting vodka again, and then she could taste it on his tongue suddenly, and her desire was replaced by queasiness.

"Mmph," she complained frantically and Draco let her go immediately, standing there under the shower panting and smirking at her, hair plastered over his forehead and water dripping off the tip of his nose. His cock was hard, and his lean stomach caved and expanded as he dragged in breath, but Hermione hardly noticed how appealing he looked. She was too busy fleeing the bathroom for the loo, crashing through the door and banging it shut behind her. She hung her head over the toilet bowl, holding her hair out of the way with one hand as her stomach protested and threatened to bring up her dinner. She retched a few times but nothing came up, and in the end she spat in the toilet and flushed it, pinning her hand against her stomach and making a disgusted moue as she slumped back against the toilet wall.

_Merlin_, she didn't know _what_ was in that vodka, but she was surprised it hadn't killed Draco on the spot.

She stayed leaning against the toilet wall for quite a while, breathing slow and careful and hoping her stomach would settle before Draco passed out and drowned in the shower. She was certain that if she moved now, she would start throwing up everywhere and never stop. A quiet knock came at the door, and she gulped down her ill feeling as best she could.

"Yeah?" she asked hoarsely, and even speaking made her feeling like being sick.

"Hermione? Need me to, ah, hold your hair back, or something?" A rather uncertain offer came through the door, and Hermione smiled to herself – it was Draco, and he still sounded very drunk. She shoved off from the wall and opened the door, hand still pressed to her stomach. He was damp, a towel knotted around his hips and his wet hair shoved roughly back off his face, grey eyes all fuddled with drink but worried on hers.

"Are you all right?" he asked and Hermione nodded slightly, her mouth all twisted up into a disgusted expression. "That stuff is awful. I can't believe you _drank_ it. Just the smell makes me want to throw up."

"I'm sorry." Draco held out a hand to her and she raised an eyebrow at him. She didn't really want to feel sick all over again.

"I scrubbed myself raw and brushed my teeth," he said softly, smiling faintly at her uncertainty, and Hermione moved into his arms, slipping hers around his waist and leaning her forehead on his chest. He was warm and damp and smelt like vanilla soap and spearmint, and she sighed contentedly as his fingers soothed through her hair.

"You can make your own tea. I'm going to bed. Moving makes me feel sick," she mumbled, still feeling queasier than was fair considering _he_ was the one who'd drunk enough to drop an elephant. Draco kissed the top of her head, and said something sympathetic in a muddled slur that she didn't quite understand, and she stumbled off to the bedroom, feeling horrible. Tucked into the warm, cosy bed, Hermione started feeling a little better, and she was sitting up in bed re-reading Madeleine Dubois-Volkov's latest update on how the scar fading potion was coming along and smiling to herself at the woman's admirable single-mindedness when Draco came in with two cups of tea, still just in a towel and with his hair spiked up in wet tufts. He looked like a half-drowned ferret.

"I got you lemon and ginger," he said, pushing the door shut with his toe and putting his own tea down on his bedside table, passing hers across the bed to her. "I remember mother always used to get the house elves to make me lemon and ginger tea when I had an upset stomach." He smiled at the memory as he un-knotted the towel and picked a pair of pyjama trousers off the floor and pulled them on.

"Thank you. That's very sweet."

"I'm always sweet when I'm drunk," he said dryly, clambering into bed and shooting her a smirk, his fingers stealing up her thigh. And then Hermione had to put her cup of tea down, before it got spilt all over them both. By the time she got to drink her tea it had gone stone cold and Draco was fast asleep, sprawled out next to her with his hair over his eyes and a satisfied smile on his lips, his hand possessively on her bare thigh. Hermione pulled her wand out of the bedside table drawer and cast a quick contraceptive charm – not having been bothered with Muggle contraceptives since she had escaped from capture – and then paused and frowned. Counted back in her head, trying to remember when her last period had been.

But the past few months had been a blur, and Hermione was too tired and groggy-headed right now to figure out where she should be in her cycle, and whether she needed to worry, or go and buy tampons. She'd work it out tomorrow, she decided very firmly, and waved the lights off with a flick of her wand; curling up under the blankets and insinuating herself back into the warm clutch of Draco's arms.

**# # # # # #**

The next morning, Hermione went in search of Tonks, and found her upstairs changing Teddy's nappy and altering her face to make him laugh. He was already trying to copy the changes his mother made to her face, and at the moment they both sported pink hair, piggish noses, and impossibly wide mouths. Hermione knocked on the door and fiddled nervously with her jersey zipper when Tonks looked up. "Morning, Hermione. What d'you need?"

Hermione sucked in a deep breath, and forced herself to speak. "I was, ah, wondering if you could apparate with me to the local village this morning."

Tonks raised an eyebrow. "I suppose I could. Maybe. Why?"

"Can I talk to you about it later, perhaps?" Hermione asked, her palms suddenly getting sweaty, even though she felt cold. "I just want to make sure of something first."

Tonks gave Hermione a long, long look, her face returning to normal, and her mouth pursing up, eyebrow arching as she examined Hermione closely. Hermione shifted under the older witch's steady gaze, hands twining together, nibbling at her lower lip. She lifted her eyes to Tonks'.

"Please, Tonks?"

"All right, sure," the older witch said at last, tucking Teddy back into his little trousers and lacing up his knitted booties, scooping him up into her arms and planting a smacking kiss on his forehead. Tonks' attention swung suddenly back to Hermione, and her eyebrow lifted even higher and a smirk lurked at the edges of her lips. "I assume Draco won't be coming with us, today?"

Hermione blushed; was she really that obvious? She supposed she was. "No. No he won't be."

"Good," Tonks said brightly as she hurried past Hermione out of the bedroom and down the hallway. "He can mind Teddy while we're gone then, it'll be good p–" Tonks broke off and shot Hermione a wicked, wicked grin over her shoulder as she started down the stairs. "Ah – _good_ for him." Tonks finished, and Hermione blushed even hotter and trailed after the other witch without a word, feeling more mortified than she had in quite a while. She had hoped she wouldn't have to mention apparating to the village to Draco at all because he could see right through her, but it seemed as though Tonks wasn't going to let her get away with that.

Merlin, why did everything have to be so _difficult? _Hermione tried to ease her blush with the cool backs of her hands, and breathed in slow, even breaths as she followed Tonks down the stairs in search of Draco, desperately trying to think of an excuse. Feminine hygiene was the first thing that came to mind, and Hermione thought it seemed perfectly plausible, and sort-of-not-really-a-lie. _I'm going with Tonks to the village to get…ah…feminine things_, she rehearsed in her mind, and decided that any blushing would be taken by Draco as merely ordinary embarrassment, and sighed with relief. Now she just had to cross her fingers and hope for the best – what exactly the _best_ might be though, Hermione honestly had no idea. She straightened her shoulders and put up her chin, and tried to ignore the feeling of heat suffusing her cheeks.

**# # # # # #**

Hermione returned with Tonks an hour later to find a houseful of people, and a flurried discussion in the lounge that seemed to be about the attack on Hogwarts. It was quite a good distraction, actually, because no one noticed when Hermione slipped away for five minutes. When she came back – her hands still trembling a little and her heart pounding in her chest like it was trying to rip free of its moorings, Neville spotted her and waved her over to him with a smile. Draco, Harry and Ron were talking intently with Remus and Kingsley, pointing at bits of parchment that were scattered over a large table in the middle of the lounge, rearranging them, arguing over things. Mr Weasley, Professor McGonagall, and a few others were hanging close in at the table too, making suggestions and disagreeing.

"What's going on?" she asked Neville, running her hands over her hair and trying to look composed and normal, and probably failing terribly.

"The Room let me open a doorway into Hogwarts this morning. They're planning the attack – they want to move as soon as possible."

"When's as soon as possible?" Hermione asked, throat feeling dry and heart not going any slower as she thought about storming Hogwarts. Battle; fighting and Death Eaters and students everywhere getting in the way and fighting back and death and… "Tonight," Neville said, shooting Hermione a worried look. "You all right, Hermione? You look a little…"

"Fine," she said quickly, even though she wasn't. She had more than one reason to be terrified about going into battle – not that she would miss it; if they were going to fight, she would be there. She forced a smile. "I'm perfectly fine, thanks, Neville. Just a little…surprised, I guess. For some reason I thought it would be a while longer before we had to go out and fight again." She looked down at her hands, clasped together tightly to try to disguise the tremble to them. "I suppose I've gotten lax, sitting around here doing nothing. It's made the war seem so far away, being out here away from everything, just…waiting."

Neville gave her a reassuring smile, and patted her on the arm. "I know what you mean. Not having to fight lately has been…quite a relief. I mean, I've been busy with the Room, but it's all been very peaceful and safe – like living in another world."

"A pretend one," Hermione said, knotted fists pressing against her abdomen as she stared at Draco, bent over a spread of parchments on the table, in dark trousers and a long-sleeved tee-shirt, his hair almost pure white in the light and falling forward over his forehead. He pointed something out with his silver hand, lips moving quickly, frowning up at Harry, who shrugged helplessly. Draco pressed the heel of his ink-stained flesh and bone hand to his forehead in frustration, and then scrabbled through the parchments, yanking one out and jabbing at something written on it, arching an eyebrow at Harry, his grey eyes cool and sharp. He looked in his element; as much as he ever would be, anyway. Hermione knew he'd never _really_ fit in with the others, but that was all right, because she didn't need him to.

"Well, yes, _but_," Neville said brightly, and Hermione flicked a glance at his smiling face as he gave her an eager look. "It won't be pretend forever, you see, Hermione. It's a world that all _this_ is working towards achieving. Right now, you, me – everyone – we're all _making history_. Isn't that cool?"

Hermione's fingers curled up against her stomach as she nodded in slow agreement, her eyes drifting back to Draco. He must have sensed her gaze from across the room because he glanced up at her from across the room, his quill pausing just above the paper, and a slow smile spreading over his lips as his eyes met hers. Hermione dropped her hands to her sides and smiled back at him, her heart leaping and squeezing tight, and then his eyes slipped away from her and back to the parchment, as he scribbled something down and shoved the parchment across the table towards Remus with a nod, sparing another glance and slow, lazy smile at Hermione as he did so. His eyes were warm and hard at the same time, and Hermione's breath caught in her throat, fingers twitching at her sides, like fish caught on hooks, wanting to lift her hands back up and stopping herself.

And then Draco's gaze was drawn away from Hermione again as Remus pushed a piece of parchment back at him and Harry nudged him to get his attention, gaining Harry a sharp frown before Draco refocused on whatever they were working on. The air seemed to snap with released tension when Draco's eyes left Hermione, a breath whooshing out of her and her shoulders sagging. She ignored the funny look Neville gave her, smiling tightly at him and then pushing her way through the cramped lounge to the kitchen. Perhaps a cup of tea would settle her nerves. Hermione didn't think so somehow, but at least it gave her a quiet moment to compose herself in the empty, sunny kitchen.

She sat at the table facing the door, the sun streaming in the kitchen windows warm on her back, the lemon and ginger tea wafting its fresh scent up in coils of white steam. The chatter from the lounge came pouring through the kitchen door though, ruing the peacefulness, and Hermione cast a Quieting Charm to muffle the sound and sat with her fingers wrapped around her hot mug, staring down into the tea and sipping at it slowly. She wasn't sure what she was supposed to do now. Tonks had given her a sharp, concerned look and said, "You owe me an explanation later, remember?" just before they'd apparated back, but she didn't want to talk to Tonks right now. There were too many things to sort out in her own head, first.

"We're going in tonight."

Hermione's head jerked up as Draco sat down at the table, opposite her, his feet stretching out beneath and bumping accidentally-on-purpose into hers. Her tea cup was only lukewarm in her hands, and Hermione wondered how long she'd been sitting there absently, all tangled up in her own thoughts. And finding no real solutions either, unfortunately. She blinked at Draco, her brain slow to process his words. He looked hard, and drawn in sharp greys and whites, and he repeated himself, worry making him impatient.

"We're attacking Hogwarts tonight, Hermione."

"Everyone?" she asked, her muddled brain finally kicking itself into gear, fingers tapping at her mug.

"A lot of people. Not everyone, in case we somehow get trapped in there, and it's a trap, or we've underestimated their forces, but a good quarter of the Order will be involved."

"You'll be going?" Hermione knew even as she asked the question what Draco's answer would be, but she asked anyway. He nodded, eyes running over her face, and she looked down at her tea, afraid he'd see something of the truth in her eyes. She cleared her throat and thought about the anticipated battle tonight, clearing her mind of everything else.

"I'm going too, then. Aren't I?" she checked crisply, and Draco's lips flattened into a thin line. "Are you up to it?"

"Are _you?_" she shot back, and Draco smirked tiredly, rubbed a hand over his eyes. "_Fuck_. I am. And yes," he sighed, "Of course you're going, Hermione. I _did_ realise you wouldn't allow yourself to not be involved in this attack – I'm not stupid."

"And you're fine with that? You're not going to be all distracted by my safety and get yourself hurt?"

"I'm not fine with that, I may get distracted, but I plan to not get hurt." He smirked a little. "I knew you wouldn't hide away for the rest of the war just because you got captured, Hermione. Noble bloody Gryffindor. And you wouldn't be you if you did the sensible thing and stayed out of the fighting." He didn't look happy though, and Hermione had the feeling it hadn't been easy for Draco to not try to persuade, trick or force Hermione into not coming on the mission. She resolved right then to not mention anything to him – not yet, anyway. Her hand slid down to her pocket, patting the slight lump there. She'd need to find somewhere to hide it. Maybe charm it to look like a tampon and tuck it in her beaded purse, which Ron – bless him – had grabbed from her room before he'd disapparated from Godric's the night of the attack.

She sipped at her tea and smiled over the rim of the mug at him. "It's not like you'll be doing the sensible thing _either, _Draco."

"You're rubbing off on me, Granger," he said, and her last name sounded almost foreign on his smirking lips, sending a wicked thrill through her, memories twining tight knots in her belly. She licked her lips and tried not to show the shudder that went through her, but he saw it anyway, and his smirk grew. He stood, puffing his fringe out of his eyes with a sharp breath and holding out his hand to her in invitation. "Want to go for a walk to the stream?"

Hermione bit her lip. "Don't we have to prepare?"

"We've got a few hours," Draco said, rounding the table and holding out his hand to her again, raising his eyebrow, his eyes intent on hers. Hermione stood and took his hand, leaving her tea abandoned as they slipped through the lounge unnoticed, down to the bedroom to fetch their cloaks – not that it was cold – and for her to lace on a pair of trainers, before sneaking out the back door. Hermione felt like prey, with the way Draco was watching her as she hurried down the few steps to the ragged lawn, and truth be told, she rather liked the feeling. His eyes sharp and demanding on her back as the long grass scratched at her bare lower legs, and the sun weighed down her cloak with heavy warmth, and for a while, she forgot her worries and just enjoyed the afternoon.

**# # # # # #**

They headed toward the stream in silence – it was a fifteen minute walk if one walked briskly, and they weren't; just strolling along unhurriedly. The sun was warm and the breeze was cool, and Hermione's fingers brushed against Draco's hand – not quite holding hands, just little touches of warm fingertips on the back of his hand. She was in shorts and a long-sleeved stripy tee-shirt and trainers, and she'd twisted her hair up into a bun and stuck her wand through it to hold it roughly in place, and wisps of wavy brown fell loose around her face. They'd walked for ten minutes and the house lay far behind them when Hermione pulled ahead of Draco, and turned and walked backwards a few metres ahead of him, a grin on her face.

She stared at Draco so intently he felt almost uncomfortable under her gaze, and ducked his head so his fringe fell over his eyes, staring at his boots as they crushed the long grass stalks beneath them.

"You're going to fall if you don't look where you're going," he warned her, looking up through his fringe, and Hermione stuck her tongue out at him. She was in an odd mood; all jittery, exuberant nerves, where Draco was mired in worry – he couldn't take his mind off the attack tonight. _Tonight_ – Merlin, it seemed so sudden, and it was, but they were ready to move, so move they would. Once they'd taken Hogwarts back, Lupin hoped Voldemort would be forced to move on the school, for a final showdown on the Order's terms. Draco's attention was jerked rudely back to the present when Hermione yelped, and he was pulling his wand and darting forward when he realised she'd just tripped over a tussock of grass.

There was no danger – just Hermione windmilling her arms, the most ridiculous look of indignant surprise on her face as she went down on her arse on the soft earth and long grass. Draco strode up and stood beside her head, laughing down at her as she tried to catch her breath.

"I told you that you were going to trip over."

"Ouch," Hermione said rather pathetically, making a dramatically wounded face, and Draco smirked at her, cocked an eyebrow. "Are you all right? I would've thought your arse would cushion your fall."

"Git," she got out, and narrowed her eyes up at Draco, whipped her wand out of her hair and flicked it at him – and then his legs went out from under him, and he crashed to the ground next to her, swearing, barely catching himself on his hands.

"Bitch," he told her in a gasping laugh when he got his breath back, and Hermione cackled at him like a madwoman, clutching her stomach and laughing so hard she was whooping for breath. He grinned at her and flopped back onto the grass, squinting up at the dizzying blue of the sky above, and listening to Hermione's laughter slowly wind down next to him. He shut his eyes and took deep breaths, enjoying the feel of the dry grass scratching against his silver hand; the magical construct so far seemed to be more sensitive to sensation in general, but dulled to pain – which he expected would be useful. It grated at Draco, to be grateful to Voldemort, and yet he was. How could he not be? He reminded himself that the evil bastard had ordered his hand to be taken in the first place, but it didn't stop the sick thankfulness that wormed inside him.

A thumb stroked between his brows, and he cracked his eyes open to Hermione's face hovering above and beside him, her eyes catching the sun and sparking with golden amber.

"What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing important," Draco said softly, and reached down and grabbed at Hermione's hip, guiding her onto him and she went willingly, settling on top of him. She straddled his hips, leaning forward so that her hair fell around her face and tickled his cheek and jaw and neck, her hands planted either side of his head. She leant down slowly and Draco shut his eyes, waiting. Her lips were soft on his, soft and warm and pliable, and he kissed her back, mouths moving together in slow synchrony, lazy and gentle and warm like the sun. He loved her more than anything he'd ever loved, he thought absently as his hands slid up her sides under her tee-shirt – she was warm and smooth, her scars from their imprisonment faded to nearly nothing after twice daily applications of liniment, as were his.

Her tongue drifted between his lips and he captured it, sucked on the tip and Hermione's strangled little moan in response made Draco thrust his hips up instinctively, grinding his quickly hardening cock against the heat of her pussy. She must have taken off her bra in their room, when she'd gone to put her trainers back on and grab her cloak, so there was no barrier to Draco's hands finding her breasts – soft-firm and a small handful, tipped with dusky-pink nipples that stiffened under the brushes and gentle pinches of his fingers, prompting hoarse little sounds of pleasure to echo from her mouth into his. She smelt like everything good, and one of her hands lifted off the ground to smooth over his forehead and comb through his hair, pulling at dragging at it as she rocked her hips and kissed him hard, still moaning small and needy.

Draco opened his eyes and saw hers were shut, lashes casting shadows on her cheeks, her face flushed, and he hummed into her mouth and his hands slid from her breasts, down her sides and around over her back down to her arse, gripping it firmly in his hands as his mouth moved with hers. She tasted like Muggle toothpaste and she smelt like the sun and grass and dirt, and the curling ends of her hair tickled his skin. He broke the kiss and undid her cloak, pushed it off her shoulders, stripped her shirt off over her head, and she sat there on him, smiling down at him with her hair a tumbled mess and her breasts bare in the sun. The house was far behind them, and no one ever came out this way. They were safe from prying eyes, Draco decided.

He pushed himself up on one hand, nearly tipping her over backwards as she sat there straddling his hips and looking at him with the strangest little smile on her lips. Like she had a secret. Draco let her keep it. He bowed his head to her breasts, tongue sweeping and curling around first one nipple, then the other, and her hands drove into his hair and fisted in it, her whimpers were loud in the stillness, and Draco smirked smugly. His eyes flicked up to her face as his hands gripped her waist and his mouth sucked and teased at her nipples, and her head had fallen back – she was flushed, a sheen of perspiration on her face, lips reddened and parted, and eyes glazed and slitted open, watching him as he laved his tongue over her nipple.

"Oh – Oh _Draco…Draco – DracoDracoDraco…_" It bubbled from her lips like she couldn't stop herself as he ground his cock up against her through their clothes and played with her breasts. His name on Hermione's lips; murmured and moaned and whispered, spilling over like a reverent litany, like a spell, like he was the only thing in her universe, and he couldn't wrap his head around _why._ The amount of love in her voice was more than Draco could hope to understand, especially when he was rock-hard and aching to bury himself in her cunt, but it was fucking brilliant nevertheless. He whispered her name back to her, his breath puffing over her breast, and she shivered and her fingers tightened in his hair painfully, her eyes were amber and heat on his, and then she was tugging frantically at his shirt, trying to rip the buttons open.

They never made it to the stream.

**# # # # # #**

**Author's Notes: **I hope you liked it! It was a bloody difficult chapter to write, and I have lost any objectivity I may have had as to it's quality and have no idea if it was good or utter crap – I'm hoping _good_. So please, review and tell me what you thought!

Also, random question – I was wondering….when exactly in _Sip of Something Poisoned_ did you guys click that Draco had his hand back, and I wasn't just making typos? :p


	13. I'm Just Fine

**Author's Note: **Thank you to all you wonderful, amazing readers who have been faithfully reviewing – much love to you all! I appreciate it so, so much. I've been struggling with the worst writer's block I've suffered from in ages, and writing this chapter was like pulling teeth, so I desperately hope it's not turned out terribly or anything ::crosses fingers::

**# # # # # #**

_**10. I'm Just Fine**_

_Eyes on the prize and I can't capsize this time_

'_cause there's somebody else in my boat_

_Used to live alone in a tomb I made my own_

_But now I've gone and given up my coat_

_And it's cold outside but I'm just fine_

_You are mine to keep warm_

_Down down down I go_

_On a road that I don't know_

_And I ain't got a thing in my bag_

_Some things you cannot plan_

_[Keep Warm, Ingrid Michaelson]_

**# # # # # #**

"Merlin's fucking _bollocks_, Hermione!" Tonks was grinning and shocked, what would have been a deafening exclamation toned down a little because Teddy was fast asleep on the bed beside Tonks. "_Wow! _You're…? You're really…? _Merlin… _And these Muggle things are accurate, yeah?"

"They are, very. I followed the instructions on the box to the letter, and…" Hermione waved a hand at the pregnancy test that Tonks held carefully and stared at suspiciously, with her pink eyebrows raised halfway up her forehead in disbelief.

"And two lines came up," Hermione continued, rubbing a hand over her face and slumping onto the bed next to the older witch and taking the test back, tapping it with her wand to return it to its charmed appearance as a tampon, and tucking it into her pocket. "Two lines. Two bloody lines. Jesus. Merlin. _Fuck_. I wasn't expecting _this_, Tonks. I don't even know what to do…what to…" She shot Tonks a beseeching look, feeling tears wobbling in her eyes that she refused to shed, her chin trembling and her stomach knotting itself up into twisty shapes.

"And here I thought you were bright, Hermione. What do you think happens when a witch and a wizard, er, _make love_, without using contraceptive charms, hmm?" Tonks waggled her candy floss pink brows and Hermione shot her a baleful look, and Tonks' mischievous look slipped away; she turned on the bed, tucking her feet up under her tailor-fashion and peering worriedly into the younger witch's face.

"Sorry, Hermione. Do – do you know when it happened? How far along you are, roughly?"

"It must have been when we were captured." Hermione stared at the wall; papered in a pattern of flower sprigs on age-spotted cream and gold stripes. It had probably happened one of the times Draco was whispering his words of furious, misdirected hate in her ear, or fastening his teeth over her shoulder in a bite that sent pain and lust wrenching through her. Merlin; what an awful thought. Hermione felt ill. What a way to conceive a child; in anger and pain, in a dark dank cell still shaking from trauma and torture, sunk in despair. Not that any of that affected how one's reproductive organs functioned, obviously, Hermione, she told herself firmly and groaned, sinking her head into her hands.

"I can't believe I never thought to take a potion when I escaped…If I'd just said I needed one, if I'd just used my _head_ and _thought about it_ for all of two seconds, I wouldn't _be_ in this situation. God, I'm so _stupid_. I just didn't _think_."

Tonks' hand smoothed over Hermione's back, rubbing firmly down her spine between her shoulder blades, and Merlin it was relaxing. It was nice. If Hermione had a choice, she would have wished for her mother to cry on right now, but in her mother's absence, Tonks' was actually quite a good substitute. Possibly even better than her mother, because her mother would be sympathetic, but also probably horrified and upset that Hermione had gotten pregnant, and to the boy that had called her a mudblood and been so horrible to her in the past, too.

"You can still take a potion, if that's what you want to do, Hermione. We'd need to get a Healer in to make sure everything went smoothly, at this point, but…" Tonks' trailed off, hand still rubbing firmly up and down Hermione's back, and the younger witch shut her eyes and made herself think about it and go over her options carefully. It was impractical – nearly insane – to consider having a child now, during the war – with the fighting and the uncertainty…and yet Tonks and Remus had had Teddy. And it had worked out for them. And there was something very appealing about the fact that there was a little bit of Draco in her right now, a little bit of Draco and a bit of her, all mixed up like a potion, and in approximately seven months time, it would be an actual baby. A _baby_. Merlin, that was nearly unbelievable.

"I'm only nineteen! I didn't plan on having children until I was twenty-five or so, _at least_. I'm not Ron and Cho – I don't want to start spitting babies out as soon as possible and have a whole brood! I wanted a career after the war – I wanted to…" Tears clouded her eyes as the words were choked off by stifled sobs, and Tonks shushed her soothingly, half-laughing – kindly – at Hermione's sudden panic. "You don't have to have a whole brood, Hermione. Just the one. And there's no reason you can't have a career and a child. There was a very good crèche at the Ministry that I assume will be started up again when we win the war – and there are always nannies, or having family or friends mind the child. And you don't have to go ahead with this pregnancy at all, if you don't want to, remember."

Tonks was calm and practical, but Hermione was mired in her panic.

"Draco's only _eighteen! _My parents would _kill_ me – _and_ him – if…_when_ they find out. Am I going to find them after the war and have to explain that not only did I take away their memories and implant false ones, but I also got engaged, had a child, maybe got married, oh and by the way you missed it all! Merlin! It's – I – I – and I don't want to be a teenage mother! My mum would be so ashamed of me!" she half-wailed the last, muffling the sound with her hands.

"Then don't be, Hermione," Tonks said patiently. "Although technically, you're both adults in the wizarding world – and by Muggle traditions too, if I recall correctly."

"And Draco – Merlin, can you imagine how he'll react? Because I can't. I have _no idea_ if he'll be overjoyed, or furious, or terrified, or want to – want to – want to murder me…" Hermione whooped in a shaky breath and tried to control her stifled sobbing, scrubbing at her eyes with her knuckles and nearly hyperventilating with the ridiculously overwhelming flood of emotions suddenly consuming her. She had to pull herself together and get a grip. She laid her hands on her knees and stared at a sprig of flowers on the wallpaper, breathing very slowly and deliberately, while Tonks patted her back gently, without a word.

"So you'll have the baby then?" Tonks asked after a good long while, looking for confirmation, and Hermione blinked and glanced at the older witch. "Why do you say that?"

"Well, you might have been saying you don't want to have a baby, and that it's a terrible idea, but you were talking about it like you're going to do it anyway. I just thought…it wounded like you've already mad eup your mind."

Hermione went back over her words in her mind, and a faint smile twisted at her lips. "I suppose I have. And I suppose I am going to."

She thought about being pregnant during a war – how much more vulnerable that made her, how it would restrict her ability to fight and actively contribute eventually, if not immediately. Merlin; having a _baby_ during the war wasn't going to be easy. And the thought of she and Draco trying to be parents – attempting to raise a child together in the middle of a war; well, Hermione didn't anticipate that was going to be easy either. She loved him madly, but the reality of the situation just sounded so absurd. Would she marry Draco just because they were having a baby? God, she wanted to marry him anyway – but would a baby be enough reason to convince him to marry her? She had no idea.

Hermione knew this much for certain – she would end up like Tonks; stuck at a safehouse because she was too pregnant to go out, and later stuck at a safehouse with the baby to make sure the infant retained at least one parent if a mission went wrong. _Merlin_. It didn't sound easy, or fun. She would far rather be out at Draco's side. But maybe it would be worth it, in the end. Maybe they could do it, together.

"I don't know what's going to happen in the future. We – we still don't know if we'll win the war, or if we'll survive it, or whether he'll go to Azkaban, or – or anything. We could all be killed, or Draco could be killed, or go to prison… And none of those things sound like good reasons to have a baby, really. More like reasons _not_ to have a baby. And yet…Merlin…yes, I'm going to have the baby." Hermione's hands folded over her abdomen, wary and frightened and _hopeful_. "At least that's something certain – for both of us. And as scary as it is, I think – I think I want this. I want…" _a little mini-Draco, tucked between them in the mornings, watching Draco cradle him or her with wondering, loving awe – seeing the Malfoy inheritance of prejudice and intolerance broken with one little half-blood baby, and the upbringing he or she would get, so different to Draco's._

Hermione certainly didn't say everything she was thinking – that if Draco died or went to Azkaban, at least this way she would always have a little bit of him. That she thought she and Draco probably deserved a chance at being a family, however brief that chance could end up being. And that she saw the way he looked at Teddy – the way he _was_ with Teddy now, so comfortable and easy – and she thought that Draco would make an amazing father. And it would give _him_ something more to cling to; another reason to live, and get through this damn war. It could be the beginning of a new era of Malfoys, their blood irrevocably tainted – the thought of that, and Narcissa's fury over it, made Hermione grin slightly.

But those thoughts, flashing through her head in a matter of seconds, were far too private to share with Tonks, so Hermione just held her tongue and let Tonks grin and hug her around the shoulders tightly.

"Well, congratulations then, Hermione!" The older witch beamed at her excitedly. "So, when are you going to tell Draco? You don't have long if you want to tell him before the mission – go on, tell him now, before you lose your nerve." Tonks grinned, reminiscing. "I remember telling Remus – Merlin, now _that_ was bloody nerve-racking. I thought he was going to keel over and faint when I finally got the words out. He went as pale as a ghost, I swear. It was rather awkward at the time, actually, but it…got better."

"I can imagine his reaction. I remember how shaken he was when he turned up at Grimmauld Place and told us." Hermione could recall it quite clearly, actually, and she desperately hoped that Draco would react somewhat better than Remus had. But even Remus had come around in the end, which gave Hermione some reassurance that even if Draco _was_ horribly upset or angry about her being pregnant, he might end up coming around to the idea. Eventually. Merlin, Hermione wondered what Narcissa Malfoy would think of Draco having a little half-mudblood baby. Christ, she couldn't help wondering what _Draco_ would think of having a little half-blood baby. Despite everything, there was the smallest, tiniest twinge of worry in Hermione's mind that a half-mudblood child might not be all right with Draco. An irrational worry, yes, she realised that, but it was still one that was hard to tune out.

"Hermione?" Tonks was smiling at her with bright, cheerful encouragement, and Hermione raised an eyebrow. "You best go tell him now…if you're going to tell him yet, that is…"

"I'm not," Hermione said decidedly. "I'm not telling him until after this mission. This mission could be a huge deciding factor in the war. I'm not going to risk the chance that Draco will get all silly and protective and decide I shouldn't fight."

"He doesn't make the decisions, Hermione. You're a grown woman, and Draco can't bloody well stop you from going if you want to."

"Yes…but Harry and Ron might be able to convince Remus to stop me, and Draco knows that. If I tell Draco I'm pregnant and he decides that means I shouldn't be fighting, he'll go straight to Harry and Ron and tell them, because there's no way _they'd _want me fighting either. Stupid overprotective boys – I love them all, but sometimes they get this idea in their head that they get to tell me what to do, and I'm not risking them trying out their whole overprotective act now. No, I can't tell anyone until after the Order has successfully taken Hogwarts." Hermione gave Tonks a pleading look. "Please, Tonks. Don't tell anyone? I absolutely _refuse_ to stay out of the fight just because of some silly, archaic notion that even though I'm just as fit and capable as I was yesterday, the fact that there's a foetus in me makes incapable, somehow."

"Of course I won't, Hermione. You think I liked having to stay out of the action when Remus decided I was too pregnant to fight? I hated it. Remus and I used to argue about it constantly." Tonks patted Hermione's shoulder comfortingly, and gave her a firm nod of solidarity. "I won't say a word to anyone, I swear."

"Thank you, Tonks. I appreciate that more than you could imagine. And…thank you for listening to me ramble, too. I still have no idea how any of this is going to work out, but I'm glad I have someone to talk to, and help me sort through my thoughts." Hermione got up, with a last look at the still sleeping Teddy – picturing hers and Draco's child and feeling nervousness wrench in her stomach at the thought of having a little person to look after. Oh well, Hermione thought glibly with a hint of hysteria, she doubted it would be any more difficult than looking after Harry and Ron used to be. She gave Tonks a wide, tight smile, her hands knotting themselves nervously over her abdomen again. She'd need to get the impulse to touch her stomach under control – it was a dead giveaway.

"I better go start preparing for the mission, then, I suppose. Wish me luck?"

"Good luck tonight," Tonks said brightly, assurance that Hermione would do just fine oozing out her comfortingly. "And…good luck with Draco, too, when you do end up telling him. I'm sure everything will work out, Hermione – life has a habit of making sure things do work out, one way or the other."

Hermione nodded dutifully, but she couldn't help but doubt Tonks' words as she hurried out of the bedroom and down the stairs, tucking her hair behind her ears and taking deep, even breaths. Things _didn't_ always work out – at least, not the way Hermione might want them to. She could die tonight, or Draco could, or anyone else she loved. They could fail to take back Hogwarts. They could all be massacred. They could lose the battle, and then the war. Hermione's hand crept to her stomach involuntarily again and she jerked it away, wrapped her fingers around her wand instead – shoved in her shorts pocket, the butt of it sticking out – and lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders as she went down the stairs. She couldn't let that any of that happen; she _refused_ to let it happen, no matter how frightened she might be of facing the Death Eaters again. No matter how scared she might be of all the dreadful ways things could go wrong, she wouldn't let those fears affect her performance tonight.

These past few weeks at the cottage, Hermione had gotten a taste of what life could be like if the war was over. Smiles and meals around the table, and late night cups of tea and walks through the fields, and little moments of simple happiness that pierced through her to her core, and Hermione was going to do everything in her power to ensure that that happiness came into permanent being. Every wand made a difference, and Hermione's presence at Hogwarts tonight could be the tipping point, the small thing that enabled the Order's victory, that allowed the war to end, and she and Draco – and everyone else – to get a chance at a future that wasn't filled with unending death, battle, and fear. So Hermione wouldn't tell Draco she was pregnant with his child, and she would go out and fight tonight, like more than just her life depended on it.

**# # # # # #**

Draco watched Hermione as she got ready in the privacy of their bedroom, her hands shaky and her eyes darting away from his, her whole demeanour nervous and secretive, so at odds to her behaviour just an hour before. She'd gone upstairs to talk to Nymphadora when they'd dragged themselves away from each other's bodies and returned to the house. She'd gone up there flushed and windblown, her hand tight in his before she let go and nervous energy pouring off her, making her jittery and clingy. And then she'd come downstairs with a grim determination about her, and something tightly hidden. Draco tried to tell himself that he had no right to demand her secrets, but he didn't bloody like the fact that she felt the need to keep secrets from him, after everything they'd been through together. He bit his tongue and stayed silent on the matter though; she'd tell him when she was ready, Draco was sure of that much, at least.

Draco pulled his trousers up and wished for his old leathers. Neither he nor Hermione had the ancient charmed Auror leathers anymore; the Order had only found so many sets, so when Hermione and Draco had lost theirs the Order hadn't had any spares to give them. Hermione still had her chausses at least, which she was lacing on right now, her fingers fumbling with the laces clumsily. He gritted his teeth as he pulled on his shirt, watching her fluster herself, her jaw set and her eyes hard, but a certain teary desperation about her. There was no way in hell she had her head in the game. Hermione was obviously on the verge of going to pieces; not focused at all. And if she didn't pull herself together _fast_, there was no fucking way Draco was going to let her go on the mission and endanger her life, and all of theirs.

"Hermione?"

She ignored him, finally jerking the laces of her chausses securely done, and reaching for a shirt – tight, black, long-sleeved and plain, that Draco himself had put several shielding charms on while she was upstairs with Nymphadora. They were only weak charms, unfortunately, but they would at least help deflect more minor stunning and incapacitating hexes.

"_Hermione_." He stepped in front of her, staying her hands before she could pull her top on, and she stood there in lavender cotton bra and worn chausses, her hair dragged back and tamed into a tight French braid, and blinked up at him, looking half-dazed.

"Sorry, what were you saying?"

"Fuck…All right, that's it – what the fuck is wrong? You're not with it, Hermione. You're unfocused. Off with the bloody faeries. You're sure as hell not ready to go charging into a fight. You'll get your fucking head blown off before you take a single bloody step." Draco eyed her carefully and Hermione's gaze flickered away from his face down to his shirt, she frowned at the harshness of his blunt words, and shook her head in denial.

"I'm fine. Just…nervous. You know what it's like. I never do well with the…before."

"This is more than just pre-mission nerves. Merlin, Hermione, I can't have you going out tonight if you're not focused." Draco tried to catch her eyes but she refused to meet his gaze, her hands knotting around her top and balling it up tightly. "I can't have you getting hurt, or _lose you_ because you're distracted from the mission. I can't. I'm not risking that."

Hermione gulped and sucked in a harsh breath, and her face seemed to clear a little, her eyes fluttered and focused, and she dropped her shirt on the bed behind them and her fingers went to his buttons. "I'll be fine, Draco. Honestly. Once we get there, I'll be perfectly well focused. I'm just…worried." Her fingers were still unsteady as she did up his first few buttons, her breath warm on his chest, fingertips brushing against his skin and making it tingle ticklishly. "This is the first mission I'll have been on since – since Gringotts, and being captured, which is rather daunting to be honest. And it could be such an important turning point in the war. If we win…then everything changes, and this could all be over that much sooner – forcing Voldemort out to fight, and allowing Harry a chance to – to –"

"Do his Chosen Boy thing and save the world?" Draco asked dryly, looking down at Hermione's bowed head and slender fingers, the tops of her breasts swelling gently above her bra cups, the creamy skin faintly sprinkled with pale freckles. She chuckled faintly. "Yes. That. But, if we lose…" She paused in her buttoning and finally met Draco's eyes, and the uncertainty and fear in the firewhiskey depths dug into his core. "If we lose, it could all be over that much sooner," she said, echoing her previous words, trying for humour and failing, her voice shaking a little. "And we could all be dead," she finished, humour gone completely now, and stark worry in her tone, and Draco folded his hands over hers.

"Anything could happen tonight, Hermione. We've got a good plan, but we don't know much about their defences or preparedness, so…yeah, anything could happen. But not being focused isn't going to fucking well help. Either pull yourself together, or you're staying here – and if I have to physically _make_ you, I will." He was sharp and hard with her, because this was her life they were talking about, this was her acting strangely and _worrying _him, this was not okay. He didn't blink; his eyes boring unflinchingly into hers. "Well?"

She sucked in another breath and nodded quickly, and when she began buttoning up his shirt again, her hands were much steadier. "Yes. All right; I'll be fine, Draco."

"Hmm," he grunted, disbelievingly. She wasn't fine, there was something going on, and if Draco didn't get the feeling she'd dig her heels in and refuse to say a bloody word if he asked anyway, he'd try to wheedle the truth out of her. He didn't like this one fucking bit. She bit her lip and breathed deliberately and slowly, and her hands steadied further, her eyes flicked up to his as she finished with his shirt. "There. All done." Her voice was as rock steady as her hands, and Draco nodded, pleased. Kissed her forehead lightly and smiled at her. "Good."

She turned away, scooping up her top and dragging it on while Draco sat on the edge of the bed and summoned his boots, lacing them on; enjoying the benefits of having two hands. He shot her a glance as she sat down beside him and began tugging on her own trainers, her lips flattened together and her eyes hard and nervous at once.

"So. Are you going to tell me what exactly is going on in your head – what it is you're keeping from me – after the mission tonight?" Draco asked Hermione abruptly, and she jumped, shot him a terribly guilty and apologetic look, her shoulders hunching up and her chin tucking down, like she was trying to shrink in on herself. "Or will I have to pry it out of you?"

"After tonight," she said quietly, not even trying to argue and deny the fact that she was hiding something, her fingers jerking the laces tight on her trainers and knotting them in a neat double bow while she avoided his eyes again. "I'll tell you after the mission tonight. I promise."

He stood, standing in front of her and checking his wand holster was secure, brushing his hair out of his eyes. "I will hold you to that, then." Grey met brown and he saw her gulp, nod, saw the nervousness and the fear all over her, and his worry only increased. He swore inside his head, suddenly scared, wanting more than anything to just _make_ her tell him what the hell was going on. But he couldn't. "I'll be in the lounge," he said, trying not to sound angry with her, but fuck, he kind of was. She smiled weakly at Draco as he turned and strode out of the room, but he couldn't find it in him to smile back. She was distracted, keeping secrets, nervous. None of that was a fucking good sign.

"Potter. Let's go over the plan again," Draco said, his words cutting the air and breaking apart Potter and Ginny Weasley from their canoodling. He ignored Potter's look of annoyance, spreading the papers out over the table again and sighing, hunching over them. "Come on, Potter – snog Weasley on your own time. We've got work to do. This has to be fucking _perfect_."

**# # # # # #**

They arrived in Aberforth Dumbledore's cellar without a problem, apparating directly in as usual; a ragged bunch of them, silent with worry and rising nerves, all instinctively gluing themselves to the shadowed edges of the room in little bunches of twos and threes. The portrait hole was open, and the tunnel stretched out behind it – dark and dank and a little cobwebby, and Draco wrinkled his nose – no matter what they bloody did, the cobwebs always came back each time they used the tunnel, although he was sure there weren't even any spiders there. Hermione thought it was just a charm woven into the tunnel – for atmosphere. Draco thought it was fucking stupid.

Lupin was looking around and counting heads as Draco did an automatic double check that he had everything he might need. Dittany, bandages, pain potion, thirty-second invisibility essence, and Peruvian instant darkness powder were at his belt, amongst other things. He made sure his bootlaces were tied tightly, because the last thing he bloody needed to do was trip over his laces in the middle of a duel. Draco had seen that happen before, to Creevy. The boy had been running at a Death Eater, about to fling a hex, and had stood on his own shoelace and fallen flat on his face. Of course with that boy's blasted luck, tripping had actually saved his life, because a Killing Curse had soared right through the space his head had occupied a second before. But falling over your own feet generally wasn't something you wanted to happen.

Draco's hair – long enough that his fringe reached the tip of his nose when it was wet, and straggled over his collar at the back – was slicked roughly back with a bit of Muggle hair mud-gel _stuff_ with one of those funny fanciful names that Muggles gave things. It wasn't easy to fight when you couldn't see through your own bloody hair – quite often _literally _bloody – which was why Hermione usually trapped her wild hair back into some sort of plait or bun, and Draco had slicked his back tonight. The wand Voldemort had given him while he was under the _Imperio_ was securely in its holster; a grotesque thing for all that it worked excellently for him, and Draco sometimes wondered what that said about him, that the wand worked so well for him. It was willow, 11 inches, yielding, with faerie spine core – that was the grotesque bit; the delicate spinal column of a faerie bound within the yielding willow – an ornate leafy pattern twining delicately around the wood.

Draco had refrained from telling Hermione what his wand was made of, and she hadn't asked. Why would she? But it gave him the fucking creeps to think that someone had gotten a wand-maker to rip out a faerie's spine and magically seal it within the core of the willow wand. It sent chills through Draco, to know that was what he was channelling his magic through. He knew that some wand-makers specialised in the grotesque, claiming that the more distasteful cores were often the most powerful, but that was relatively uncommon, really. The wand Draco was using used to belong to a Dark wizard from New Zealand, who had come to Voldemort's service, and shortly thereafter, been killed in a fight with a Death Eater. And Draco had been fortunate enough to inherit the bastard's wand. Lucky him.

"Right." Lupin interrupted Draco's wandering thoughts, clapping his hands together and clearing his throat, moving forward into the middle of the cellar. "It's eight pm. We have to wait until Kingsley signals his group are in place, with his patronus, before we make our move. They should be at the gates of Hogwarts within ten minutes. Make sure you're ready to go." Lupin nodded around at the gathered white-faced and quietly nervous Order members surrounding him, and then turned away, putting his head close to Potter and talking quietly. Draco turned to Hermione, who stood a little behind and to the side of him, up against the cellar wall, her face striped in dancing oranges and golds from the torchlight, and dark shadow.

Hermione had been very quiet since he'd left her in the bedroom to go over the plans once more with Potter, but that wasn't unusual. She was always quiet before missions – nearly everyone was. There were a few chatterers in the bunch who just wouldn't shut up pre-mission, but generally the Order members were tight-lipped and grim-looking before a mission.

Draco stepped close to her, into the mingled shadows and light and illusion of privacy, and his hand slid over the planes of her face, the silver catching the torchlight and glinting brightly. She always looked different with her hair dragged back so severely, and coated with Muggle hair product – severe, her eyes dark and her parted lips pale and dry. Draco curled his hand around her neck and ducked his mouth to hers, kissing those parted lips, softly at first, and then harder. Hungrier. If the other Order members hadn't been there, it was the sort of kiss that would have ended with Draco shagging her against the wall until she screamed and moaned and came on his cock. He just wanted nothing more than to screw her brains out, and he swore internally as his cock stiffened, trapped uncomfortably in his trousers.

Hermione whimpered against his lips very faintly as Draco's tongue darted into her mouth, and her hands fluttered in the air uncertainly for a moment before she sighed and swayed into him and gripped his shoulders hard, fingers denting his flesh. She melted into him like utter surrender, and Draco could help the surge of victory that went through him at her capitulation, and his hand snuck around to grip her arse, the other still gripping her neck. The cellar faded away until it was just them – mouths and bodies and need, and – and then Draco dragged his mouth away from hers with a harsh gasp. He was breathless and hard and aching, and his breath came in sharp little drags as his hands came up to cradle her face, his forehead tipping down against hers.

Hermione was equally breathless, and her hands stroked up and down his arms, her eyes nearly black on him in the light, her kiss-swollen lips reddened and damp. She drew breath, parted her lips, searching for words.

"Kill me," she whispered, and Draco blinked at her, thinking he'd misheard, thinking that she must have said _'kiss me'_. She must have. Because… "What? Hermione? _What?_"

"If – if it looks like they're going to take me, if it looks like I'm going to be captured; use the Killing Curse on me. Kill me." Her eyes were bottomless pitch with amber glints, and utterly serious, and Draco felt like she'd scooped out his insides with a spoon, like she'd turned him inside out, like she'd _confunded_ him and then jabbed him in the eye with her wand for good measure. His gut wrenched and he shook his head automatically, panic and revulsion sweeping through him hard. "No. No. Fucking _no way_, Hermione." He shook his head, taking a step back. "You can't fucking ask me to do that. You can't fucking ask –"

"I'd do it for you, Draco," she said stoically, her eyes blackened by the shadow and light, very wide and clear on his, and Draco shook his head again. Shook it frantically, feeling cold and clammy and confused, and furious at her for even asking it of him.

"You can't ask me to do that, Hermione. That's fucking insane. _No._"

"I won't be taken. I won't be tortured and –" She stuttered and looked down, awkward and uneasy, her hands twisting into his "– and raped, and used as bait to lure Harry in, or distract him from doing what needs to be done. I –"

Draco seized her wrist and jerked her closer, his jaw clenching and his chest seething. "You want me to kill you so that you getting captured doesn't upset Potter?" The words hissed out of him like steam on the air, hot with anger but somehow insubstantial, because Draco knew Hermione had made her fucking mind up already and nothing he said would sway her. She gulped a breath as Draco glared down at her, silver fingers too tight around her wrist and furious enough that he wanted to fucking shake some sense into her, his teeth grinding as he gritted the words through them.

"Quite apart from it being totally _fucked up_ to ask your fiancé to kill you, I somehow doubt you being _dead _is going to make Potter happy, you stupid bloody bint." It was the angriest he'd been with her in a long time, and Hermione blinked at him as though he'd startled her with the cold fury in his tone. He made sure to keep his voice low – they were half screened from the others by a large old support beam, and thrown in mostly shadow, but he didn't want to make a scene.

"Then do it for me, Draco, please," Hermione insisted. "Not for Harry, but for me. Because I don't want to be put under the _Imperius_, I don't want to be raped and tortur–"

"You don't want to be me? Fine. _Fine_, Hermione." It hurt, funnily enough. It hurt so fucking badly that she'd rather _die_ than go through what he had, because what did that say about how she saw him? That he would be better off dead? Draco's wounds were still raw, no matter how well he was dealing with the trauma of it all, and he gritted his teeth and restrained the urge to yell at her, to fucking hex the living shit out of her, because whenever he heard that word – that _word_ – his blood froze over in his veins. He knew he was being irrational, but he didn't care. Hermione would rather that he killed her than risk being captured, because to her, what Draco had been through was worse than death. Fuck. That was really, unexpectedly hard to swallow.

"That's not what I meant, Draco! I just –"

"Well what _did _you mean? Fuck it, never mind…" Draco wondered absently if it was the rape and torture or the Imperius she feared more, shaking his head in a vain effort to clear it. He swore under his breath, dropped her wrist as if it burnt him and glared at her. "Ask Potter. Ask Potter if you want. I'm not fucking killing you. Never. Never, you hear me? I don't care if you abandon your noble fucking Gryffindor ways and become the next Dark Lord, I'm still not killing you. Got it?" His hands came up to her face, his fingers trembled over her cheeks as he met her eyes urgently, trying to make her understand. "You can't ask me to do that, Hermione, because I can't, not if there's a _chance_ that I could get you back, just like I came back." He was begging her because he had the most awful feeling that if she insisted he'd do it and hate himself for it, and that scared him.

Hermione's hands came up to lay over his where they cupped her cheeks, and she nodded slightly, her lips found his jaw, kissed it firm and warm.

"All right. I'm – I'm sorry I asked you. I just…" The air drove out of her and her mouth hung open as she searched for words where there were none, thinking about their capture – he could see it in her eyes. "I just can't. I _can't _go through that again. Not now."

"Does this…_request_…have something to do with what you're going to tell me after the mission?" Draco asked, and her eyes dropped and he followed her gaze automatically, and then his jaw twitched. His fingers spasmed. His mouth fell open slightly. His grey eyes widened and his heart felt like it just stopped beating in his chest, frozen mid-pump. Draco was a Slytherin, and so he knew that Hermione dropping her eyes could have just been her trying to avoid his gaze, or, she could be instinctively looking at what she was trying to hide from him. He knew from experience that the latter was more likely, in Hermione's case. And Hermione was looking at her stomach. Or more precisely, her abdomen.

Shit.

Shit.

Draco's heart swelled and swelled, or his chest constricted – one or the other – and he couldn't _breathe._ At all.

"Wha…?"

She.

She.

She was…

Oh _no. _Oh _fuck_ no.

"You're…fucking _shit_, Hermione, you're…" Draco began dazedly, remembering now the way she'd been funny about the smell of meat, and had thrown up over the alcohol fumes of the vodka he'd drunk, and picked at her food, and just generally been not quite _right_, and he wondered how in the fuck he hadn't seen it sooner. What kind of Slytherin was he, anyway? All the evidence had been sitting there _right in front of him_, and Draco had just been completely oblivious to the fact that Hermione was –

"No," Hermione said sharply – not a denial, but a halting of his frantic words, and his flurried thoughts. "_No_. I told you we'd talk _after _the mission. _After. _I'm not doing this now."

"But that was before I knew –"

"You don't know _anything_, Draco. You _don't_. We can't talk about this now!" She was frightened and one of her hands fluttered over her abdomen, and Draco _knew_ for certain then, that Hermione was pregnant. Shit. Fucking shitting bastard. Fucking shitting bastard _cunt_. Fucking… Draco blinked frantically, the world swirling around him and him a statue in the middle, terrified and not understanding a Merlin-damned thing. "You –"

"Draco, Hermione – are you listening? Come on; it's time to go. Let's get a move on." Lupin's voice cut the air, and Hermione was past Draco and moving before he could even think of reacting. Her scent filled his nostrils with vanilla and floral notes as she pushed past him, and all he could think was _'she's pregnant she's pregnant holy-fucking-shit-she's-pregnant'_. Because he had no idea what he'd been expecting the secret Hermione had been keeping to be, but her being pregnant had _not_ been it. Draco didn't have the first fucking idea how he was supposed to feel about that. At all. Inevitably, Draco's first thought was that his father would be _so_ pissed that the Malfoy line was being tainted by a half-blood ba– but his mind stuttered over the world baby and Draco ended up just staring blankly at the place Hermione had been a moment ago, trying to make his mind start working again.

"Draco." He looked up at the sound of his name, head jerking like a hunted animal's. Hermione was staring nervously at him, standing alone in front of the portrait hole, a line of _Lumos'_ disappearing down the tunnel as the rest of the Order team moved towards the Room. Her eyes were glowing in the torchlight and steady on him, her chin up and her wand clutched in one hand – the other straying towards her abdomen. Draco thought she looked beautiful. And frightened.

"Come on," she said and smiled at him tremulously, as if she was scared he was going to shatter apart, or scream at her or something else rather unwise and Draco blinked and unfroze, nodding numbly and moving toward her and the portrait hole.

Hermione was pregnant. And it had to be Draco who'd knocked her up… Unless, he thought, blood running cold, she'd lied to him about what the Death Eaters had done the times that he had passed out from the torture before she had, or the times Rostan had taken him and left her alone in the cell. His stomach turned at that thought but he didn't show it, merely gesturing casually for Hermione to head into the tunnel, and stepping through himself, the portrait swinging shut behind him. Hermione was off, hurrying after the others, her wand tip glowing with a _Lumos_, and it seemed like she was trying to get away from Draco; lest he question her any more, he supposed.

Draco conjured a ball of faint greenish-blue light to circle his head and followed behind Hermione, his long strides out of rhythm with her brisk steps. He wanted to ask her, '_is it mine?'_ but he didn't think that would be a good idea right now. It wasn't exactly the sort of conversation that lent itself to the tense final few moments before pitched battle. She had been right to not want to tell him about it until after the mission. Draco's mouth twitched into a small, weary smirk as he realised that she must have only found out herself this morning – it would explain why Nymphadora had taken Hermione into the local village for 'feminine hygiene' products, and left Draco with the baby. She must have gotten a Muggle pregnancy test thingy. It would explain her strange behaviour once she'd gotten back with Nymphadora, too.

Fucking hell. Did this mean he was going to be a father? Draco Malfoy, father to a half-blood child. His mother would murder him. She'd had such high hopes for him, once upon a time. That he would marry a well-suited, high-society, pureblood girl, and have lots of pureblood grandchildren for her to fuss over. Instead, he'd knocked up mudblood Hermione Granger. And they weren't even married. Yeah, his mother was going to die of horror; luckily, Draco didn't really care too much anymore, about how horrified his mother might be.

He did, however, care about the fact that Hermione was pregnant. Immensely. His mind whirled as his feet automatically plodded on behind Hermione, and he thought about all the many ways in which he could fuck a child up. Thought about what would happen now if Voldemort won the war – it wasn't just his life and Hermione's on the line anymore, it was their future child's as well. Fuck. And if it wasn't his? Draco's mind kept swirling back to that, to the imagined picture of Rostan raping her in that small torture room, while Draco hung unconscious and insensible from the chains, unaware of what was happening. Or someone like _Snape_, visiting the cell and taking his _reward_ before he was supposed to, while Rostan was having his fun with Draco.

Fuck.

Draco nearly walked into Hermione when she pulled up short at the doorway into the Room of Requirement, and he dragged his focus back to the present. He needed his head clear and focused, right now. Draco couldn't allow himself be distracted by the thoughts of Hermione's pregnancy, or his probable incipient fatherhood, or the fear that it could actually be Rostan's or Snape's and Draco might never know – Hermione might not even know.

Draco gulped down air, trying not to hyperventilate, the horrifying thought searing into his brain and leaving him more frightened than the prospect of the battle ahead of him. He shuffled up to hover at the back of the group assembled in the Room of Requirement, falling in beside Hermione and desperately trying to clear his head. Lupin was giving instructions that Draco already knew backwards and forwards, having helped lay the plans – thankfully, because he wouldn't be able to absorb a word of it right now. Instead, he turned his eyes down onto Hermione as she insinuated her hand into his.

"Focus, Draco," she whispered, lips hardly moving, eyes fixed on Lupin. Her hand squeezed Draco's hard, and he squeezed back.

"You too." Draco swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. "Be careful, Hermione. Be fucking _careful._" He spared her a brief, tight smile. "Don't go being a Gryffindor hero; leave that up to Potter, huh?"

Lupin finished his repetition of the instructions he'd already gone over once in Aberforth's, and then Longbottom opened a doorway from the Room into Hogwarts. Hermione and Draco's hands fell apart, and she was moving ahead of him, her braid bouncing against her back and her feet sure in her trainers as she skidded out into the seventh floor corridor behind Ronald Weasley, wand in hand. Draco swore inwardly, and then he was running after her, his breath sharp and shallow in his ears as his adrenaline began to _flow_.

**# # # # # #**

Hermione felt sick. She wasn't sure if it was pregnancy sick, mission-nerves sick, or 'Draco just figured out that I'm pregnant' sick. She felt ill enough that it could possibly be all three, and she was swallowing down bile as her stomach roiled and her feet automatically hurried her along the corridor towards the staircases. She was sandwiched between Ron and Draco; Ron a step ahead of her half the time, and Draco keeping even, their shoulders brushing together occasionally, Ron or Draco's hands reaching out to unnecessarily steady Hermione now and then, or guide her around a corner. It was very selfishly nice to have them there, to have the feeling of being safe, of knowing that there were people who had her back – who would die for her, just as she would die to save either of them.

Hermione's feet thudded on the stone floors as she jogged along the seventh floor corridor in the middle of the group, breathing with deliberate evenness and clutching her wand tightly. She could remember all too clearly the last time she'd been in these corridors. She'd had her back shredded by Goyle, exploded Amycus Carrow, and set Nott Senior on fire, amongst other horrible, disgusting things. She could remember the pain and the blurred panic, the blood and the soot and the excruciating feel of Draco smoothing the numbing salve into the gashes on her back. The light kiss in the tunnel in the dark. The disgusting taste of Fred and George's _Weasley's Wake Up _potion. The sound of Draco's voice as he'd begged Blaise to just _go_, and the pain on his face when he'd killed his friend to save Hermione's life. It had been a nightmarish night - but they had gotten out alive that time, despite all the horrors they'd experienced, and they would again tonight. She had to believe that.

Remus was leading their group of just over twenty people, including Neville, Dean and Seamus, and the twins, and Hermione felt reassured by who she was with – they were all good fighters, all reliable. Their group was to get down to the main doors and seal them shut, and from there, split up into pairs and go throughout the castle, silently sealing off the other exits and entrances. Once they had closed off as many access points as possible, they were to go through Hogwarts, systematically eliminating the Death Eaters that resided there, guarding Hogwarts and teaching the students; although from what Neville had said, it was more like _torturing_ the students. According to the Marauder's Map, there were eighteen Death Eaters in Hogwarts, not including Snape, and whatever senior students were fighting on the Death Eaters' side. Hopefully the Order team would take out any patrols they encountered, and neutralise the Death Eaters, before the alarm was sounded, and thus be able to avoid pitched battle. That was the plan, anyway, but in Hermione's experience, things very rarely went as planned, and she was expecting it all to go terribly, horribly wrong.

She worried about Harry as she ran down a staircase, feet flying, those quick little _tap-tap-tap _steps one used to get down stairs as fast as possible. He was going up to Dumbledore's – the headmaster's – office alone, hidden beneath the invisibility cloak, to try to speak to Snape privately. He wanted to know more about why Snape was helping them, and whether the ex-Potions Master could be truly trusted. He'd insisted on going to see Snape, and neither Remus nor Hermione had been able to dissuade him. She and Remus were the only ones who knew the real reason why Harry was seeking out Snape, because they were the only ones who knew Snape was on their side; everyone else had been told Harry needed to speak to Dumbledore's portrait, urgently.

Hermione knew for a fact that both Draco and Ron knew that was a lie – she'd overheard them talking about it in oddly conspiratorial tones shortly before they'd left the cottage for Aberforth's – but neither of them had pressed the issue. They seemed to understand the secrecy was necessary. It had been extremely strange though, to wander into the hallway and find Draco and Ron standing at the end by the back door, heads close together and whispering – _maybe he's trying to take Snape out? Doesn't make any sense. Could be _– and then they'd seen her and cut off abruptly, looking immensely suspicious. Ron had cleared his throat and nodded at Hermione, and Draco hadn't even bothered to try to hide what they'd obviously been discussing. It had made Hermione smile – Draco and Ron, conspiring together. Hermione wondered sometimes if the world had gone utterly mad; she rather liked it though, disconcerting as it was.

Hermione's breath came hard and fast and her legs started to burn as they raced down staircase after staircase as quickly as possible. On the sixth, fifth and the third floors, they encountered senior student patrols. The patrols were comprised of mainly Slytherins, as Hermione expected, but a sizeable percentage were Hufflepuffs, with several Ravenclaws, and even two Gryffindors that Hermione wasn't well acquainted with in the mix. Luckily, and not surprisingly, they were quickly and easily stunned, bound, and stuffed unceremoniously in a storage cupboard on the sixth floor, and abandoned classrooms on the fifth and third floors. And then they were down all the stairs, Hermione's thighs and calves aching and cramping and the stitch in her side digging into her, and Remus was sealing up the huge main doors, and directing everyone to split up.

Hermione was with Draco, of course – they ran along the ground floor, sealing off windows with charms and wards that shot in silver sparks from their wands, and encountered no trouble. Not yet, anyway. They, and Neville and Ron, were taking the dungeons, once they'd done what they could to restrict access points into the castle. They wanted to make sure any Death Eater reinforcements were channelled into several magically trapped points. Once the alarm went out – because they had no doubt that eventually one of the Death Eaters would be able to raise it – Kingsley and his team would be able to enter Hogwarts' grounds without worrying about triggering the alarm with their presence, and bar the gates, holding them against any Death Eater reinforcements, until the team inside the castle had cleared it, and were able to come out and help hold the line. Hermione hoped to Merlin that the Death Eaters were unprepared, and that the attack would go smoothly as she skidded to a stop before she ran full tilt into Neville and Ron just before the entrance to the dungeons.

"Done? Ready?" she panted, and Ron and Neville nodded breathlessly.

"Let's go then," Draco said coolly, his face cast in sharp, grim lines, and then he was leading them down into the dungeons, his boots silent on the stone, his hair shining white in the dim light. There were three Death Eaters in the dungeon according to the Marauder's Map, as well as who knew how many students who were loyal to Voldemort, and Hermione was terrified. Only the four of them, most likely vastly outnumbered by the enemy, and she was almost angry that they were being sent down into the dungeons, just the four of them and no one else, but they were really the only people the Order could spare – the other areas of the castle needed to be covered too. Hermione took a deep breath, bit her lip, and followed quietly behind Draco, her heart in her throat and Neville and Ron at her back.

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**Author's Note: **Worst. Writer's. Block. Ever. I hope it didn't show through too much in the final product, and that you enjoyed the chapter. Please review, I need your lovely kind words to kick my stupid-arse muse into gear :)

Next chapter: the fight to take back Hogwarts, the aftermath, some quiet moments, and the beginning of the Order's preparations in anticipation of the soon-approaching final battle.


	14. The Spark of Morning Light

**Author's Note: **First off, thank you all so much; your reviews have just been so amazing :) I'm so sorry I haven't replied to them personally, but I want you to now how much I appreciate them. I've been stuck in a mire of 'ohmigod this story sucks and I have writer's block and I suck and wahhhhhh I hate everything', but all your wonderful, awesome reviews have given me the motivation and encouragement I needed to get my head back in the game – so thank you so, so much!

**Trigger Warnings for graphic violence, death and gore.**

I loved writing this chapter, so I hope you'll love it too :)

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_**11. The Spark of Morning Light**_

_Remember what they say_

_There's no shortcut to a dream_

_It's all blood and sweat_

_And life is what you manage in between_

_But what you don't know_

_Is you're too young and eager to love_

_Seething, I see_

_You're about to get into_

_The ditch that you opened up_

_(Ground your sense of worth_

_To the spark of morning light_

_And all those searching eyes_

_Could scold your tender mind)_

_[October, Broken Bells]_

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Hexes and curses flying, and shields sparkling into life. Spells hitting walls of stone or magic and rebounding, and screams ripping through Draco's ears, drilling into his skull. He was lost in the bright flashing lights and the sharp ozone scent, the stomach-turning odour of blood and people's insides. He took out everyone, until he was the only one left standing, frantic adrenaline surging through him. But it all fell away in a moment as he lowered his wand and _stared_. Crumpling in front of him with blood gouting from her slit throat, was Astoria Greengrass, a Slytherin girl two years below him who'd always watched him secretively in the common room with big pretty eyes full of adoration. Too young for him, too young and too quiet, so he'd never kissed her the way he'd half wanted to, and now her pale, thin hand was fluttering at her throat as the blood pumped out.

She reached for Draco, her big eyes puzzled, and he automatically took a step forward, and another, and caught her as her legs went out from under her, forgetting that just a moment ago they'd been trading hexes, and it was only luck and experience that meant Astoria was the one dying instead of Draco. He forgot because she was _so young _and she'd had a crush on him for years, although she'd never spoken more than two words to him at a time, and he forgot because he'd sliced her throat wide open without a second thought, and there was nothing that could make that right. So he caught her and held her tight to him.

Draco's hands shook as he sank to the floor with Astoria in his arms, her slim form surprisingly heavy, his hand clamping over the blood coming from the horrible wound that opened up her throat like a second, lipless mouth. She was in a white nightgown, her hair in a long honeyed braid down her back and her small nipples ghostly shapes beneath the thin cotton of her nightgown as her chest rose and fell, shuddering for breath that wouldn't come. Draco had severed her windpipe with his _diffindo _and she was suffocating now, choking on blood, ashen lips moving and beautiful pale green eyes pinned to his.

He cradled her in his arms and rocked her. Astoria. He'd known her for years; the little pale shadow trailing along behind the older kids when they went to Daphne's family manor to visit in the holidays. Always there in the background, those big pale leaf-green eyes fixed adoring on him, and Draco had never really thought of her as anything other than a cute kid but occasional nuisance, until now. Until she lay gurgling for breath and dribbling blood from slack lips, as her severed arteries pumped the last of her lifeblood against his silver hand, hot and thick and horrid. Her hand wrapped around his wrist, and she blinked at him, lips quivering, and Draco didn't know what she wanted. He didn't know what to _do_, but he felt like he really _should_ do something. There was no hate in her eyes, no blame, like Draco felt there should be. Just a faint sad puzzlement, as the wet sheen to her eyes – the spark of life in them – slowly began to dull.

Confusion on her face, that thin chest shuddering as she tried for breath that wouldn't come, small breasts heaving, her thin, cold fingers blood-sticky around his wrist. Her head rested in the crook of his elbow, his real hand clutching against her slim waist as his silver one pressed against her throat, feeling the weakening spurts of blood. She would have grown up to be so beautiful. And Draco had killed her. Draco had murdered the girl who'd sent him a card the last Valentine's Day he'd spent at school – an anonymous card, but he would recognise her distinctive perfume anywhere, the strong scent of too-sweet cherries clinging to the thick red paper. It would have been easier if there was hate burning in those dying leaf-green eyes – it would have made it easier to bear. But instead there was only a vague, hurt bewilderment, as if she didn't understand what had happened.

Just moments before, Astoria had burst out into the common room from the girls' dorm, which Hermione had chased a female Death Eater into not two minutes before. The ruffles at the hem of Astoria's thin nightgown had already been spattered with blood, and her eyes had been terrified, and Draco didn't think she'd even recognised who he was. She'd just started screaming hexes with each slash of her wand, and he had ducked and blocked, and in the end, on instinct, used the _diffindo_ that had killed her.

Merlin, there was nothing this awful. Nothing was as horrible as fighting his own housemates and being unable to afford to use stunners and disabling hexes, even on the younger ones – but having to use hexes he knew would blow through their shields instead. Would make them drop, dying or dead or horribly wounded. Draco had heard Weasley half sobbing several times, and Longbottom had killed a fourth year and spent the next ten minutes of fighting screaming he was sorry over and over as he duelled, the tears streaming down his face. Draco had lost sight of Hermione once she'd rushed into the girls' dorm, and he didn't know how she was coping. He was afraid she wouldn't have it in her to kill students, and she would die instead of them.

Draco stared down at Astoria – he was rocking her in his arms like a dazed _idiot_ in the middle of a fucking _mission_, he realised suddenly, but he couldn't bring himself to put her down. To leave her discarded on the cold stone floor in a pool of her own blood. Not until she was dead. He could give her that, at least; hold her as she died. Draco _had_ to give Astoria that, for all the times he'd seen her looking at him with adoring eyes from over the top of _Couture Charms _or _Witch Weekly_ magazine, a blush rising on her cheeks when he noticed her looking and raised an arrogant eyebrow at her. Still cradling her in his arms, Draco dragged Astoria back a metre or so, behind an armchair in the corner of the empty common room, her bare feet dragging limply on the ground as he hitched her along. In relative safety, hidden mostly from view by the armchair, he held her close and watched her die.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he muttered through lips flecked with her blood, a horrible wrenching pain in his gut. This was the world he was going to bring a child into, apparently. It was a world where children were murdered by those who claimed to be on the side of righteousness, and Draco hated himself for what he had done to Astoria, and for the other bodies littering the Slytherin common room, which _he_ was responsible for striking down.

"I'm so fucking sorry, Astoria," he mumbled and he was crying, because her eyes were open and glazed and unblinking, and she was dead. Dead. _Deaddeaddeaddead_. _Fuck. _Draco hadn't thought it would hurt this much; he thought he had become inured to killing those who had once been his friends. But Astoria was so young and so full of potential, and now she was _dead_, and maybe she didn't have to be, maybe Draco could have stunned her or disarmed her instead, but he'd turned straight to a hex on instinct, and now she was _dead_.

"_Astoria! _No. Oh Merlin, _no_, not Stori…"

Draco lifted his head, and stared up at Daphne Greengrass, in a clinging pink silk nightie, her blonde hair loose down her back and her wand pointed straight at Draco, huddled in the corner behind the high-backed armchair with Daphne's dead little sister limp and blood-smeared in his arms. Daphne's voice was shrill and dangerous as she asked, "What did you do to my sister?" Her voice was wavering, her hand unsteady, but it was as if she hadn't quite realised that Astoria was dead yet; it hadn't sunk in. "What did you d-do, Draco? _Stori? Stori?_"

"I'm sorry, Daphne, I –" Draco began as he reached for his wand in its holster, and Daphne made a sharp, horrified noise and levelled her wand at his head. "No. _No, _don't you dare move,you _bastard. _You did this to her, didn't you?" Accusation, hoarse and shrill and horrible, and Draco saw the hate in Daphne's eyes that hadn't been in Astoria's, and it was almost a relief. Her teeth were bared in an animal snarl; the cords stood out on her long, elegant neck, and her wand hand trembled with tension. "You k-k-killed Stori, didn't you? _Didn't you? _Draco? _Draco?_"

"Daphne." He lifted his hand from Astoria's throat, and heedless of the blood that coated the silver of it like a macabre glove, rubbed a hand over his face, wanting nothing more than to bow his head and sob, because…because… They had been comrades once, Draco and the people down here whom he was killing and wounding and fighting for his life against. Not friends, but allies and Housemates, and now Draco was cutting them down and slaughtering them. Daphne and Astoria weren't even involved with Voldemort's cause, and nor were their parents. They were just defending their House, defending their friends. Daphne flinched back when Draco lifted his head to meet her eyes, and he remembered the blood then, felt the stickiness smeared over his face; Astoria's blood.

"You _bastard_," Daphne grated out, high and hoarse and hateful, and Draco just stared at her, blank and sticky with blood, her baby sister still cradled dead on his lap. He was in shock, he thought vaguely. He should do something. Daphne was going to kill him. Draco made his hand move toward his wand in its holster, but he knew it was going to take too long. It was too late. He knew he was dead. He didn't want to die, because _Hermione_ and _the baby_ and _life_ – life was something to cling onto no matter how awful it got because it was _life_, but at the same time…Draco was almost glad he wasn't going to have to kill Daphne. He didn't want to be responsible for the murder of both the Greengrass girls. Merlin, Pansy would be so angry with him – both that he'd killed Astoria, and that he'd let Daphne kill him. Draco's fingers closed around the end of his wand and Daphne began to scream a curse, and…

"_Sectumsempra!_" Hermione's familiar voice cried with vicious intent, and Daphne's nightgown was suddenly was rent through in multiple places as deep gashes gouged through the flesh of her torso, arms and thighs. She went stumbling back, her wand falling from numbed fingers and a look of hate and horror on her face, and Draco stared at her with equal horror. Blood began to stain the torn pink silk a dark crimson, and Daphne choked and stared down at her negligee, touched one of the tears with light fingers, ghosting over the deep slice beneath.

"You mudblood _bitch_," Daphne whispered, glaring past Draco, and then Hermione walked into view at Draco's right, her wand held up and her face pinched and white, her hair coming out of its braid and tension and self-loathing radiating off her. She looked so strange in her battered leather Auror chausses paired with the Muggle trainers and black top – torn at the shoulder, the sleeve wet and clinging to her arm and Draco knew it must be soaked with blood. Relief poured through Draco like a flood; Hermione was alive, she was all right – or not too severely wounded at any rate. He struggled to push Astoria's limp body off him, wanting to get to Hermione, and Astoria was literal dead weight. Merlin, she lolled in his arms like a rag doll, and Draco's skin crawled as he tried to awkwardly shove her body off his legs.

"I'm sorry, Daphne," Hermione said quietly and her voice quavered as the other witch fell, her legs giving out, crumpling to a heap on the stone floor, her blood pooling around her. Draco heard Hermione sob a few times, ragged, choked little sounds, and then she turned to him, wiping at her eyes. She helped haul Astoria's body – really astonishingly heavy in death – off Draco in silence, her lips flattened together and her cheeks tear streaked. She whimpered when the gash in Astoria's throat opened wide, like a terrible, grinning mouth, and Draco swallowed down vomit himself. And then Astoria rolled off him onto the floor and Draco left her there on her face, arms and legs strewn twisted with the undignified awkwardness of death.

"You knew her well?" Hermione asked as she gripped Draco's hand and helped him stand, and he rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, and nodded sharply.

"Stupid girl had a crush on me," he said succinctly, feeling so _guilty_, and Hermione bit her lip, looking up at him worriedly. "I'm so sorry, Draco. Your own House; it's not fair that you have to…" She trailed off helplessly and shook her head, and Draco caught her chin, used his real, less bloody hand to wipe a blotch of blood from her eyebrow before it trickled down into her eye; they didn't often bother with _scourgifys _during missions – it was best not to use unnecessary spells. It wasn't easy to drain oneself of magic, but it had been known to happen in dire circumstances, so the rule was not to bother with cleaning off the blood unless absolutely necessary.

"It's the way it should be. I've already convinced some of the students to surrender rather than fight, and there's no way anyone but me would have been able to do that," Draco interrupted her, and then turned in a circle, studying the familiar common room.

"Where are Weasley and Longbottom?"

"The boys' dorm."

"What's the situation in the girls' dorm? Under control?"

"They've surrendered. I locked them in - they still have their wands, of course, but the locking charm is a good one. Even if they change their minds about surrendering, they won't be getting out any time soon."

"Good job," Draco smiled down at her, kissed her mouth lightly and tasted metallic blood. He hoped it was Hermione's or his blood, and not Astoria's or some stranger's. His stomach turned and he drew away. "We best make sure Weasley and Longbottom don't get themselves killed, hmm?"

"Yeah," Hermione said tightly, and nodded, letting Draco lead them out of the common room and toward the boys' dorm. Daphne's body blocked the entranceway, and Draco stepped over her corpse, refusing to look down at her, but his boots splashed sickly in her blood and his stomach turned at the sound; he looked down despite himself and saw her neck twisted at an impossible angle and her blue-grey eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. He remembered nearly kissing her once at Blaise's summer home, years ago, the smell of hothouse roses in his nostrils and her face turning away from his at the last moment so his lips barely brushed her cheek; remembered her subsequent nervous giggle and the way she'd said, '_no, no, we really mustn't, Draco._' Remembered the haughty way she had about her, the way she tossed her head on that long neck so that her hair tumbled down her back, nose stuck in the air. Remembered her and Pansy gossiping cattily on the train while Draco lounged against Pansy and enjoyed the idle moments.

Merlin. Draco was going to have fucking nightmares about Daphne's dead, blank-staring corpse; he knew it.

**# # # # # #**

Hermione's shoulder and arm hurt right down into the bone, and she still felt physically ill over what had happened in the girls' dorm. God it had been so frightening, leaving Draco in the common room fighting too many people alone, to face too many people herself, also alone – he hadn't been able to enter the girls' dorm, thanks to the charms placed on it to keep boys out. Thank Merlin Hermione had taken out the Death Eater woman with a _reducto _that had terrified the whey out of most of the girls, even the older ones. Chaos had erupted and some of the girls had fled the dorm, others hiding in or under their beds, and only a handful choosing to fight. They hadn't been very good fighters either. One had gotten in a lucky slashing hex that had gashed Hermione's arm, just up by her shoulder, and Hermione had used the Killing Curse on her without a thought.

After that, Hermione had only had to kill, wound or disarm a handful more girls before their resistance faltered, and she was able to amplify her voice and order them all to remain peacefully in the dorm if they wanted to be released to their families unharmed after the fighting was over. She'd locked the dorm door behind her, and run straight up the stairs into the common room, only to find Draco cradling a dead girl and Daphne Greengrass screaming at him. Hermione just wanted the night to be _over_; she couldn't take any more of this. It was _different_ when it was students, most of them younger than her.

There was a lot more resistance in the boys' dorm than the girls' – the Death Eaters had organised the Slytherin boys well, and Ron and Neville appeared to be pinned down in one of the bathrooms, only just managing to keep the boys from swarming them. There were bodies on the ground, bodies too young to be dead, but dead despite that, and Hermione felt heartsick. They were killing students. Killing students. It wasn't fair, it wasn't right. It was _wrong_. So, so _wrong_. She had sent a patronus in search of Remus, to tell him that they were facing more resistance than they'd expected, and to please send reinforcements, but Hermione had no idea if Remus would be able to spare reinforcements. She, Draco, Ron, and Neville might just be on their own for this one.

She threw up another shield, crouching down behind a bed by the door and flinching every time a curse or hex whizzed over her head. Draco was next to her, ducking his head and hunching his shoulders to keep in the slight shelter the four-poster bed gave them, popping up every few seconds to let off a hex. He'd been yelling for the people he had known at school – calling out names and telling them to lay down their wands, ordering them, threatening them, begging them. They couldn't just use stunners, because the older students were too adept at shielding and blocking and could stop a stunner, and only a strong enough hex or curse could cut straight through their shields. Hermione was trying to wound and disable, not kill, but it was hard. She knew that she'd killed at least seven students, not including Daphne, and one of them had been a little first year girl who had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

She cleared the memory of the girl's face from her mind, and concentrated on fighting. Her arm ached fiercely, and her heart pounded like a drum. Her breath was loud in her ears and hexes flashed through the air with cracking, whizzing, whining sounds. There were yells and screams, and her own panicked half-sobs. Draco was close at her side and his eyes were quicksilver in the light, shining at her from the mask of drying blood that coated his face. Hermione stunned and bound four younger boys, and Draco cast an _incendio _that hit one of the Death Eaters, and created enough distraction that he and Hermione could move forward, towards the place further down the dorm where Neville and Ron appeared to be. She threw herself over the bed, rolling over it in a mad tumble, her shoulder screaming at her, shoes hitting the floor and a shock travelling up her legs, scrambling to the bed in front of her.

She blindly sent off a few hexes as soon as she got her back pressed to the next bed, and then Draco was landing on the floor, crawling fast to her side and pressing his own back against the bed next to her. He grinned at Hermione, his teeth white and his skin crimson, his hair streaked red and blonde, and she could see the wild, frantic adrenaline rush of battle in his eyes. The high of nearly dying but not, of fighting and living and killing and the sick, horrible thrill of it, which Hermione had never really experienced, but that she knew he did. When it got too bad, Draco buried himself in it; buried himself in the gory joy of fighting, and his eyes were cold and hot at the same time, his grin humourless, a rictus. He gritted his teeth, spun and yelled the _Cruciatus_ and Hermione felt her face turn down, screw up, because she hated that Curse almost more than the Killing Curse. But what choice did they have? There was always a choice though, and she wondered for a brief moment if they were really doing the right thing.

And then Neville screamed – Hermione knew it was Neville, she would have recognised his voice anywhere, even over the deafening chaotic sounds of battle, echoing of the dorm room walls. They had to get to him and Ron. Somehow. Had to get there. She stuck her head above the shelter of the four-poster and screamed the _Cruciatus _herself, feeling sicksick_sick_ inside, and then flung herself over the bed into the cover between the next two. She shouted hexes and curses as she steadily pushed onwards towards the bathroom Neville and Ron seemed to be trapped in, losing track of Draco – losing track of everything, tunnel vision taking over, working on pure instinct. Bodies dropped and children screamed, and now and then the agony of pain ripped through her body and made her stagger.

She was afraid for the baby, afraid for herself, Draco, Neville, and Ron, but Hermione knew they didn't have any other option but to keep fighting, so she did. They couldn't retreat, and from the shouts of her name and frantic cries for help that Ron was making, they couldn't wait for reinforcements because Neville might not last that long.

"I ca– him while – attacking! Can't heal, need – defend – 'Mio– _help! _He's bleed– it's everywhere. –erlin, _'Mione!_" Ron was shouting and shouting, only snatches of his words getting through the noise, but it was enough for Hermione to know that Neville was dying on the bathroom floor, and if she and Draco didn't get to them soon, he would die. He would die just like Daphne Greengrass, and the girl Draco had been cradling in his arms like she'd meant something to him. Only Neville meant something to _Hermione _– he wasn't just a student that she would be sad was dead but didn't really know, he was _Neville _and she couldn't lose him_._

So Hermione fought, and every time she killed or horribly wounded a student, her heart broke apart a little, and every time a student dropped their wand and surrendered, intense relief buoyed her up, gave her a little bit more of the strength that she sorely needed. It was all a hazy pain-filled blur of blood and horror, and Hermione fought through it all. She thought of nothing but _shield, fire, block, duck, painpainpainpain, shield, run fire _– she cast, blocked, and stumbled inexorably forward, oblivious to everything but the goal fixed in her mind; the bathroom, and Neville and Ron inside it, who needed her.

They needed her and she wasn't going to fail them.

**# # # # # #**

Terror and breathlessness and blood dripping from a gash in Hermione's side, her eyes so wide and so scared on Draco's. He was limping and pain darted through his bones with every step he took, his chest was molten fire, but he got to Hermione, sitting on the floor slumped against the bathroom wall, heaving in frightened breaths, blood trickling past the fingers she had clamped to the wound in her side. Her legs were twisted under her awkwardly, and her vial of dittany was empty on the floor by her hand – Longbottom's many wounds hissed and sent up steam as the dittany Hermione had drenched Longbottom with sealed the wounds and soothed his ghastly burns somewhat. But Draco could see she needed dittany herself; the puddle of her blood growing, seeping bigger and bigger over the white tiles of the bathroom floor.

Draco stumbled through the bathroom door, throwing glances over his shoulder at the students that still lived; making sure they were all wandless and bound. When they'd all finally surrendered, Draco had _accioed_ their wands, and Weasley had pushed past the pain of his broken arm and begun casting binding charms on them, to make sure no one tried anything. Weasley was just binding the last one Draco saw, and he relaxed minutely as he took one last dragging step to Hermione. He fell to his knees by Hermione's side, fumbled out his dittany; ignoring Longbottom who groaned in pain on the floor, eyes screwed shut and one hand banging hard into the bathroom tiles as the pain from the wounds and the dittany overwhelmed him.

"Fucking _hell_, Hermione." When she moved her hand away – her eyes fixed on Draco's face wide and bloodshot – he could see that the wound was a deep, deep gouge into her side, and it was going to leave a scar, he was sure of it. He sprinkled dittany over it shakily and she hissed in a breath and whimpered at the pain, her back arching and her head knocking back into the wall with a clunk, her teeth sinking through her lip. The room seemed to be swaying, Draco felt sick. So much fucking _pain_ searing through him. So much blood, everywhere. Longbottom's hand was banging banging _banging _incessantly on the _fucking _tiles, and Hermione was crying hard, sobbing and choking as her wound began to roughly seal up a bit. Enough that she wouldn't bleed to death, anyway.

"G-give it here," Hermione gasped through her tears, and grabbed the vial of dittany out of Draco's numb hand, and he let her, blinking and trying not to vomit or pass out. "Sit back," she ordered him and Draco shuffled agonisingly back against the wall beside her, wishing that he could help her as she forced herself to kneel upright, facing him and panting raggedly at the pain.

"Christ, Draco." She was white as a sheet as she tore the ruins of his shirt away and saw the damage the sixth year student had inflicted on Draco with his _incendio_, before Draco had killed him. She re-corked the dittany vial and gripped it in her teeth to free up her hands – pulled out another vial. Draco watched through a wall of pain that was slowly consuming him, his head lolling against the wall, tears of pain streaking his cheeks. He felt so fucking dizzy, and it was like acid was eating his torso. Just _melting_ it away. So much pain. So much.

Hermione grabbed his face in one hand, tipped his head back and poured a potion down his throat – the bitter taste of pain potion, and Draco choked on it and swallowed. Waited for the sweet relief – it took a while to kick in, sometimes. Especially with burns. Shit. _Shit. Hurts._ Hermione wet her fingers and palm with the dittany, and stared hard into Draco's eyes, and he struggled to understand her words.

"This is going to hurt. A lot. But we don't have enough dittany left to just…shake it on carefully," she told him. "The pain potion should help. I'm sorry, Draco." And then she smeared her dittany-wet hand over the blistering and charring on his chest, and Draco _screamed_ and convulsed and everything went red with pain and he thought he was going to _die_ from the agony. It was worse than when his leg was burnt, worse than _anything_ that he could remember, and even with the pain potion starting to work he couldn't _stand_ the excruciating touch of her hand on his burns, he couldn't _stand it _and –

**# # # # # #**

The attack had gone well; Hermione had heard nothing but celebrations since the battle had ended. Their attack had succeeded not just well, but brilliantly in fact, and miraculously, no one in the Order teams had died.

They had succeeded at barricading Hogwarts from the few Death Eater reinforcements who had attempted to aid their fellows, killed all the Death Eaters within the castle, and killed or disarmed any students who put up resistance. The students who had resisted were being removed to makeshift detainment centre type housing, and the other students were being evacuated to their families. Where a student was without family available to immediately take them in, they either went with a friend to stay with their family, or would be placed in temporary Order housing. The castle had been frantic with activity; many students wanted to stay and help fight – especially the Gryffindors – and the uninjured Hogwarts professors were all in a fluster trying to make sure everyone who remained in the castle was overage, and no underage witches or wizards stayed behind.

It was just past midnight now, and Hermione blinked hard, trying not to nod off – she felt like she needed to prop her eyes open with sticks, her eyelids felt so heavy, and her head was a ton weight on her neck. She was sitting by Draco's bed in the infirmary, waiting for him to wake up. Madam Pomfrey was bustling around as if nothing had happened and this was just an ordinary school day, clucking her tongue and doling out potions, ordering assistant medi-witches and other Healers around in a stern, ringing tone. Hermione sat in the middle of the sea of madness, hands laced over her abdomen – Madam Pomfrey had cast a quick diagnostic spell and assured Hermione the foetus was unharmed – staring at Draco, a little island of numbed calm. Her side ached, as did her shoulder, but the pain potion Madam Pomfrey had all but forced Hermione to take had made her head feel all swimmy, and she was so unnaturally _calm_ she was pretty certain she was in shock.

She sighed and yawned, and blinked, Draco's sleeping form blurring and doubling in her vision for a moment. Madam Pomfrey had told her to go to sleep, but she'd refused. Not until Draco was awake. Hermione leant forward, bracing her forearms on the side of the bed by Draco's arm, and tilting her head toward his face, gazing blearily at him. He didn't look young and innocent in unconsciousness like he used to – not right now, at any rate. Blonde stubble dusted his jaw, and his brows were scrunched down, eyes sunken and bruised in his face and lips compressed with the pain – and if anything, it all made him look older, harder. He was all sharp angles, broad shoulders, and ragged white-blonde hair, his long fingers twitching on the thin pale grey blanket that covered him to his waist, with new scars scattered livid over his pale skin. The Healers didn't have time to waste on extra niceties like erasing scars or the like, right now; there were too many wounded Order members and students alike.

His torso was swathed in pristine white bandages that hid the healing damage from the third degree burns he'd suffered, and his silver hand was still stained faintly with blood, despite the _scourgifys _Hermione had cast on him and her both. He was so achingly handsome despite his haggard appearance, so achingly all _hers,_ and alive, and Hermione laid her cheek gently against his forearm and sighed with the relief that wended its way slowly through the shock that had numbed her. They had survived. They'd taken Hogwarts, and they had all survived, every single one of them. She couldn't have asked for anything more than that. This, here, in the infirmary with Draco, secure in the knowledge that everyone she loved was all right – this was as close to perfectly happy as Hermione thought she could get, right now. As she ever really _needed _to get.

She fell asleep with her cheek pillowed on his arm.

**# # # # # #**

"Hermione."

A hand on her shoulder, shaking her very gently, and she grumbled and mumbled and swiped at the drool drying at the corner of her mouth and down her chin.

"Hermione."

She jerked upright, her neck not thanking her for the sudden movement, and she realised that Draco had _not _made a good pillow, because she was aching all over – back, shoulders, neck – even her bum was sore from the too-hard chair she'd fallen asleep on.

"Harry!" She smiled at him bleary-eyed and stumbled to her feet, flinging her arms around him and squeezing him as tightly as her aching arms would let her. He made a gasping sort of laugh, and then patted her on the back, squeezed her tightly in return, and she clung to him like he was a rock – a port in a storm. She hadn't seen Harry since the beginning of the battle, and although she had heard he was all right, it was such a huge relief to see him with her own eyes. She pulled back slightly, hands gripping his arms, and looked him over with half-maternal concern. He looked dreadfully tired and pallid, his hair was more dishevelled than usual, and his eyes were weary and dulled behind his glasses, but he was one of the best sights Hermione could have laid her eyes on right now. She dragged Harry back into a bone-breakingly tight hug, burying her face against his shoulder and trying not to worry him by crying with a happiness she couldn't explain, and that he would think was distress.

"Jesus, 'Mione. Crushing. Me," Harry choked out after a moment and Hermione laughed awkwardly and let him go, took a step back and bumped into Draco's bed, and checked fast to see if he was awake. He wasn't though, and disappointment turned down the corners of her mouth, her fingers slid over Draco's human hand lightly, and he stirred and sighed in his sleep, his eyes darting beneath his eyelids as he dreamt. She turned back to Harry, and then she saw Ron there standing just behind Harry, grinning broadly at her. She stepped forward to be swamped in Ron's hug, and this time it was her who had to gasp that he was crushing her, and then they all stifled silly laughter, grinning at each other with relief and happiness and triumph. The three of them, all together in Hogwarts again.

"We did it," Harry said, and Hermione nodded, still grinning. "We did, Harry. We really did it. God, I nearly can't believe it."

"Well believe it, because it's bloody well true," Ron said, and they all grinned speechlessly at each other for another moment, before coming together for a hug, arms wrapped around each other. This was an enormous turning point in the war. Now they had Hogwarts back, they had a real chance at winning this war, and possibly sooner than they could have ever hoped before. Their heads knocked together, and Ron and Harry's hands gripped Hermione's shirt as they clutched onto her. The Order was no longer scattered out over the country in safehouses and small groups – they had a place to make a stand against Voldemort, and it was one of the best feelings in the world.

"Get a room, you three," a hoarse croak came from the bed behind Hermione, and she jerked back from Harry and Ron and spun to see Draco blinking sleepily up at her and the boys, a faint smirk on his lips.

"Screw you, Malfoy," Ron said lightly, and Hermione snorted tearfully and elbowed Ron in the side, moving to Draco's bedside and taking his hand in hers.

"You're awake. How are you feeling?" she asked him worriedly, her eyes casting over him, noting that his smirk had already faded to a pained grimace, and his skin was pallid and covered in a sheen of perspiration.

"Like utter shite. I –" He broke off and hissed, his silver hand going to hover over the bandages that hid his healing burns from view. "It hurts." He was deathly pale, swallowing hard, and Hermione squeezed his hand tightly, helplessly. "Harry, go tell Madam Pomfrey that Draco needs more pain potion," she ordered her friend, and heard Harry's quick assent, his boots thudding hurriedly away.

"How are you?" Draco whispered, forehead deeply furrowed and fingers digging into Hermione's hand as he breathed little shallow gasps against the pain.

"I'm fine. Absolutely, perfectly fine."

"And the…?" Grey eyes slid down from her face to her abdomen, and one eyebrow cocked, his face layered with worry over the pain, and Hermione laughed weakly and nodded, sniffing back tears, because his concern had to mean that he was at least somewhat happy about her being pregnant, and that was such an enormous relief. She couldn't say much with Ron hovering right there, slouching behind her with his hands shoved in his pockets and badly hidden concern at Draco's condition on his face. So she just nodded, smiling a little and bending to press her lips to Draco's temple, laying a kiss there and whispering, "The baby's fine." She drew back and nodded firmly, saying louder, "Everything's totally, wonderfully fine."

Draco gritted his teeth and nodded, his hand still hovering above his chest like he wanted to press his hand against the wound in a futile attempt to ease the pain, but couldn't, because he knew it would just make it hurt more. His hand flexed and curled into a fist.

"I'm – not bloody wonderfully fine. I could do with the fucking pain potion right about now," Draco admitted in a rough whisper, and Hermione glanced around for Harry or Madam Pomfrey, willing Harry to hurry the hell up. "_Shit. _I don't remember my fucking leg hurting this much."

"You were unconscious while your leg was being healed. You know healing burns hurts a lot. It won't be much longer, though. Only another hour or so before the majority of the healing is done," Hermione tried to reassure Draco, and he flattened his lips together and nodded once, staring blankly up at the ceiling and obviously holding in whimpers of pain. And then Madam Pomfrey bustled over with Harry in tow and several vials in her hand, and Hermione breathed relief. "Hang on, Madam Pomfrey's here," she said, and Draco nodded minutely; his only acknowledgement, unable to speak, his whole face taut and white with pain.

"Sorry, dears, sorry. I'm so terribly busy," Madam Pomfrey fussed as she shooed Hermione out of the way and took a good look at Draco, tsk-ing and frowning down at him, like he was to blame for waking up. "You're not supposed to be awake yet; there's still too much healing for your body to do, and none of it is very pleasant. Burns never are. Now, here you go, drink this."

She uncorked a vial, but before she could tip it down Draco's throat he held up his hand, stopped her. "What is it?" he croaked – his infernal need to know exactly what he was being given rather than just trusting the Healer – and Hermione rolled her eyes at him. Honestly, did he want the pain potion or not?

"Pain potion, of course," Madam Pomfrey said briskly, glaring at Draco now. "Now drink up – I'm not asking, I'm telling you." And without further ado she tipped it down Draco's throat, forcing him to swallow or choke, and then before he could recover, she whisked out another vial and uncorked it, tipping that directly down his throat too. He spluttered and swallowed and glared at her. "What – wha…wass…thh…?" Draco's eyes slid shut mid-sentence, and his breath eased out of him in the deep, slow exhale that indicated a sleeping potion, and then the pain eased out of his face and his hands went limp and relaxed on the pale grey blanket that covered him.

"Well, Mister Malfoy will be asleep for the next several hours," Madam Pomfrey said brusquely to Hermione and the two boys, who flanked her now. "So I recommend you three go and get some rest." She gave Hermione a particular _look_, "Especially _you_, Miss Granger. Your body needs its rest in order to –"

"Of course! We'll go do that right now. Thank you Madam Pomfrey!" Hermione said too-loudly, nodding gratefully at the matron and dragging the two slightly bewildered boys away with her, before the older witch let anything slip. "Come on, before she decides to drug us too," she said laughingly, trying to act normal and failing horribly, and Ron gave her an odd look and Harry chuckled.

"Where are we going to sleep?" she asked them, doubting that they could just go up to the Gryffindor dorms, because somehow that wouldn't seem right.

"Ginny and Cho are in the Room of Requirement. Most of the Order members who don't have to guard the castle seem to have decided to sleep in the Room," Harry said as the three of them strolled along the corridors of Hogwarts together, arm in arm, Hermione sandwiched comfortably between the two of them. "No one really…feels safe in Hogwarts yet. And there are still _bodies_ being removed from the corridors and dorms, and…well, the Room seems nice and safe, and Neville's gotten it to portion off with curtains and hangings and stuff into separate little rooms for everyone, so…"

"How is Neville?" Hermione asked, realising belatedly that she hadn't seen him since she'd been frantically sprinkling dittany on his terrible wounds in the Slytherin boys' dorm bathroom.

"He's –" Ron let out a bone-cracking yawn, cutting himself off mid-sentence. "–he's fine. You saved his life, you know, 'Mione. First he saved mine by taking the slashing hex for me, and then you saved his by healing him, and –" He yawned again, and it set off Harry and Hermione into yawns, and she giggled exhaustedly, leaning her head against Ron's shoulder as they straggled wearily along toward the Room. Merlin, she was certainly ready to get some sleep; if she wasn't careful she was going to fall asleep right now, and sleepwalk her way to the Room, she thought and giggled again, warm with Ron and Harry's arms around her, and the thought that Draco was all right and healing, and everything was…just…fine…

**# # # # # #**

Draco gone to the astronomy tower when he'd woken and found the sickbay hushed and still, with no Healers on duty to tie him down to the bed or drug him up again. He wasn't sure why he'd gone there because it hardly had good associations for him, but it had just…called to him. He'd found his wand in the top drawer of his bedside table, and with a bit of concentration that wasn't easy thanks to the pain potion, had cast a warming charm so that he didn't freeze in just the pair of thin blue sickbay pyjama trousers and the bandages that swathed his torso. And then Draco had slipped out quietly on bare feet, the stone floor startlingly cold, although the warming charm kept him from being chilled right through. He'd kept to the shadows, for the most part, and while he'd seen the occasional Order member patrolling the corridors, they hadn't seen him.

Draco had reached the astronomy tower without incident, although by the time he had reached the top his breath had been coming hard, and his chest was squeezed in a vice of fiery pain. He walked to the iron railings and awkwardly sat down, his feet dangling off the edge into empty space, leaning his forearms on the rail that was at chest height, and glancing down. There was something about being so very frighteningly high up that made Draco feel strangely, fiercely alive. He remembered the last time he had been up here, in this tower, and leant his chin on his forearms and lost himself somewhere between the so very long ago past and the coming future, as he watched dawn creep its rosy tendrils over the pale sky.

"Draco!" Footsteps hurrying across to him and he glanced up from his contemplation of the horizon to see Hermione rushing towards him in a stripy jersey and jeans, her hair an untamed explosion of tangled, bushy curls. "What are you…?" She was flushed and panting, and it looked like she'd run the whole way up the tower stairs, fear written all over her, and Draco frowned.

"Watching the sunrise. Why?"

"I – you weren't in the – and I looked on the Map – it said you were up here, and I guess…" She stopped and blushed pinker and shrugged, padding over to him on bare feet and avoiding his eyes. Draco smirked. "You thought I was going to throw myself over the edge of the tower in a fit of _extremely_ belated guilt?"

She sat herself next to him cautiously, making a face at the height, her feet dangling down next to his, hooking her foot around his leg. "Maybe," she admitted embarrassedly, fingers white-knuckle tight around the bar in front of her breasts as she glanced down at the ground. "God, this is unnerving."

Draco said nothing, just watched the rays of daylight start to spread out over the sky, blotting out the few stars that still sparkled faintly.

"So why are you up here?"

"I don't know." Draco sighed, frowning at the sky. "It's as good a place as any to think. Nice view."

He could see from the corner of his eye that Hermione was giving him a funny look, but she didn't question him any further, just nodded and made a sound of assent, because, well, it was a nice view, whether Dumbledore had died up here or not. It was still a pretty view. Draco suspected he was still a little high on the pain potion, but that was all right. It felt quite nice, really; all peaceful and calm, and there was no one around to embarrass himself in front of, except Hermione, and she didn't count. Draco turned his head, eyes dragging lazily over her mass of tangled brown hair, her dark, straight brows, and large firewhiskey eyes, the pink flush to her cheeks, and the point of her small, firm chin. Merlin, she was fucking gorgeous.

She saw him looking and ducked her head a little, chewed at her lip and scratched at her cheekbone, looking awkward and half-amused. Draco scooted slightly closer to her, the healing skin on his chest pulling and hurting beneath the bandages as he wrapped his arm around her waist, pulled her warm against him, the wool of her jersey tickling on his bare shoulder.

"So. I'm going to be a father, then?" he asked her, a little numbly, because it was very hard to know what he felt about it, and then he just ended up feeling _numb_. Overwhelmed. Hermione sighed, and nodded. Looked nervous. "Yes. You are. I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry. This was the _last_ thing I intended to happen, because really, this is _not_ the time to be bloody well _pregnant_ and having a baby. I didn't mean to – but it happened, and…I know it seems silly and entirely impractical, but…I kind of want to have it." She admitted that last bit in a rush, like it was a fault, a flaw, and Draco frowned at her.

"Of course you want to have it. What else would you…?" Oh. Of course. Hermione seemed to think that she should have taken an abortifacient potion, or maybe whatever Muggle method there was. She shot Draco a nervous look and he shook his head at her and shrugged casually. "Don't be sorry, Hermione. Of course you want it; what else would you do?"

"Well, Pansy…"

"Pansy was raped," Draco said flatly, feeling a dull hurt stab through him at the reminder of what his father had done to his ex-girlfriend and friend. "That's different. But other than that…the old families, like the Malfoys and the Blacks, they don't…do _that_. It might be a common Muggle thing, and that's fine, but the old families have enough difficulty conceiving as it is; accidental children are always treated as a blessing, not a burden, no matter what awkwardness or inconvenience their arrival might cause."

Hermione nodded slowly, her brown eyes full of thoughts. "But I'm a Muggleborn, Draco. This baby won't be a pureblood. Just a half-blood, and not even a respectable 'the Muggle ancestor was several generations ago, and we're suitably embarrassed by it' half-blood, but an actual –"

"And who's going to care about that, Hermione? My father?" Draco huffed a short laugh and winced at the pain in his chest, as the potion began to wear off a little. "The only people who would actually care what blood our child has are the people we're fighting a fucking war against."

Hermione glowed, a secretive sort of smile creeping over her lips, and Draco raised an eyebrow. "What did I say?"

She shrugged. "_Our child_. It just sounded really…lovely."

Draco saw his chance and took it, risking her wrath, trying to hide his serious question in a way that could be taken as a joke. "It is _our_ child, right?"

She saw right through him; her smile dropped away. "What do you…? What are you trying to imply, Draco?" A frown scrunched her dark brows together, and Draco wished he hadn't said anything; or had at least waited until his head was less fuzzed with pain potion and he was slightly more capable of being sneaky.

"Not _that_, I didn't mean _that_…" he said hastily, resisting the urge to beat his head on the railing for his own stupidity. "I meant…ah…"

"_Oh_." Comprehension took Hermione's face and cleared it of the beginnings of anger, before casting it into mild revulsion and distress, and her hand slid onto his thigh, radiating warmth through his thin pyjama trousers. "No. Um. _No_. It's definitely yours, Draco. _Definitely_. They never…_never_. It's, well, only ever been…you. Of course."

"Oh. Okay. Good." Draco nodded, and buried his face in Hermione's mane of hair to hide the heat of embarrassment and pleasure, both, on his cheeks. "That's very good."

There was a long moment of silence, while Draco tried to absorb the fact that in less than a year, he was going to be partially responsible for raising another human being.

"I think I'm terrified," he said bluntly, and startled a laugh out of Hermione. "No, really, Hermione. I'm terrified. I'm going to fuck this up royally. What the hell do I know about teaching an impressionable child to be a responsible, moral person? Look at me! My father was – is – a cold, hard man, who wasn't that great when I was young, and then when I was older, taught me to follow a Dark wizard blindly, tortured me and cut off my – my _fucking_ _hand_, and raped my ex-girlfriend, and tried to – to you… Shit, Hermione, I've no fucking idea how to be a good father. I'm going to – going to fail miserably." He stared at Hermione wide-eyed, a sudden panic overtaking him. "I'm not fucking fit to be a parent."

She just looked at him, full of sympathy, and then leaned up to kiss his cheek. "You'll do fine, Draco. I'll get you a book on how _not_ to raise your child to be evil, and you'll be right." She smirked at Draco and he gave her a scathing look, because he really was bloody worried, and it wasn't a joking matter. He opened his mouth to protest, and she kissed him again, and drew back, eyes fixed to his, and said very firmly, "You will do _fine_. I know you will." Draco could hear the total, trusting certainty in her voice, see it in her clear eyes, lit by the rosy gold dawn and sparking with warm amber, and he nodded slowly.

"You should probably get me that book though. Just in case."

"I would," Hermione replied with a smile in her tone, leaning her head back onto his shoulder, her fingers warm on his thigh and her foot hooked behind his leg, hanging over the edge. "But I don't think there are any books that specifically cover the topic of 'raising your child to be not-evil', unfortunately." She sighed heavily, as if exhausted by the enormity of what lay ahead of them, and shifted beside him, leaning warm and snug against his side. "Muggles have a lot of childcare and parenting books though, that in all seriousness we might find helpful. I'll have to raid a Muggle bookstore soon. We're going to need all the help we can get."

Draco didn't disagree. He was nowhere near bloody ready to have a child, even if everything else in his life had been perfect; he certainly didn't know how the hell he was going to handle having one in the middle of a Merlin-damned war.

"We'll manage," Hermione said, more of that calm certainty in her voice, and Draco made a doubtful sound of assent, eyes on the glow of the rising sun as it bathed the landscape beneath them, hoping that she was right.

**# # # # # #**

**Author's Note: **So, what did you think? I was really so pleased with how this chapter turned out, so I really, really hope you liked it too :) I like writing the friendship moments between Hermione, Ron and Harry, and how even though things are different, they're still sort of the same, too. And I love writing action scenes and death scenes, like Astoria and Daphne's deaths and such. So fun!

Leave me a review and tell me what_ you _thought! And if there's anything in particular you'd like to see, let me know and I'll see if I can deliver – I aim to please!

Next chapter, preparations for the final battle begin, so that everything and everyone is ready, before Harry sends a challenge to Voldemort… Most likely will include Narcissa, Neville, sex in the dungeons, telling everyone about Hermione's _condition_,and more :D

Now, while you wait for the next chapter, I recommend you go and watch the awesome _Warm Bodies_, which this chapter's title song is from, and drool over the gorgeousness that is Zombie!Nicholas Hoult, because serious, zombies have never been so fucking sexy ::melts:: I want him. I want him a lot :D


	15. You Fill Me

**Author's Note: **Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed! You give me motivation to keep writing, even when I'm quitting smoking and everything just suuuuucks, including writing this. I don't know how I'd keep going without your lovely encouragements and compliments :) And I'm so sorry this chapter has taken so long, too! The afore-mentioned quitting smoking has messed mightily with my ability to write, it seems, and I'm still trying to find my freshly post-nicotine feet, so please bear with me! I'll get back into the groove eventually, I'm sure.

**Warning for graphic sexual content, because Draco fills Hermione a lot this chapter ::coughs:: Yeeeah, that joke never gets old.**

**# # # # # #**

_**12. You Fill Me**_

_I never thought I'd fall so far down_

_This incredibly long dark hole_

_Something so sweet as the sound of your feet_

_On the floor would give me more room to breath_

_I'll say goodbye again tonight_

_The third time's the charmer they say_

_Your words are inked on my skin_

_The marks of incredible love_

_[Incredible Love, Ingrid Michaelson]_

**# # # # # #**

"This is so strange," Dean commented as he slid into a seat at the Gryffindor table two seats up from Hermione. The Gryffindor table was the most populated of all the tables in the Great Hall, but it was still three-quarters empty. It did indeed all feel a little eerie – familiar and different all at once. Hermione kept expecting to glance up at the Professors' table at the head of the Hall and see them all sitting there eating breakfast, but they were scattered amongst the House tables with the students and Order members. It was Hogwarts, and yet it was all so _different. _Hermione stabbed at her poached egg – the yolk hard, because runny yolk was risky when pregnant, as far as she recalled from when her much older cousin Amelia had been pregnant with her first child several years ago – and frowned. She liked her poached eggs to have just perfectly runny yolks, and nice firm whites.

"What? Being back here, like this?" Harry asked, sitting across the table from Hermione with Ginny at his side, echoing Hermione's thoughts.

"Nah, I expected that. That's not weird at all, really," Dean said, and grinned suddenly. "It's having Malfoy sitting at the Gryffindor table that I can't get my bloody head around."

"That's no surprise, Thomas," Draco said, dry humour in his voice and not malice, delicately shaking brown sugar evenly over his bowl of porridge. "You never were the brightest, after all."

Dean acted affronted, but he was still grinning as he complained, "Oh, screw you, Malfoy, you bloody arrogant pr–"

"Now, now, play nicely, children," Fred chided as he, George, and a rather thick-stomached looking Angelina, all found seats at the table. Dean rolled his eyes at Fred, and Draco ignored him completely, turning his attention instead to Angelina, who was nibbling at a piece of dry toast and sipping a cup of tea, and Hermione gave her a look of understanding sympathy. The older witch flashed Hermione an appreciative smile, but of course didn't know – yet – that Hermione was feeling much the same way Angelina was. The twins and the pregnant witch had apparently finally told everyone that she was pregnant, just before Hermione had escaped capture, because at five months along it had been becoming rather blatantly obvious. But considering the awkwardness of the situation, and Mrs Weasley's fierce ire, no one really spoke about her _condition_. This was why Hermione flinched when Draco eyed Angelina, and cringed inwardly.

"Goodness, Johnson. You're looking very…rotund," Draco commented to Angelina, a teasing sort of jab with a snide little eyebrow waggle, and she blushed and glared at Draco. "Well, we can't all be stick-figures, Malfoy. Pregnancy tends to do this to one's body."

"Oh, you're finally admitting it now?" Draco asked pointedly, and Hermione kicked him under the table. He could hardly talk, what with the secret _they_ were keeping from everyone else at the table. Pot, meet kettle, she thought dryly. Of course, they'd only just found out that Hermione was expecting, but still – it was bad form to tease Angelina while Hermione was sitting here, secretly pregnant and not telling a soul. She cringed at the thought of telling Harry and Ron especially – she had no idea how they would react, but even if they reacted well, there was something about telling them that Draco had _impregnated _her that made her want to die of mortification.

At least she didn't have to suffer her parent's wrath; a cold comfort which reminded her that they should probably talk to Narcissa very soon. They hadn't been in contact with Draco's mother since they went missing over two whole months ago – Hermione couldn't believe time had passed so quickly. She knew that Remus had kept Narcissa informed of any developments since Hermione and Draco's capture, and she had had been told Draco had returned, at least. But communications had been pretty well locked down after the attack on Godric's, so Draco hadn't had a chance to speak to his mother himself. Narcissa probably didn't even know that Hermione and Draco were engaged, let alone that Hermione was pregnant with the woman's first grandchild.

"Yes, we couldn't hide Angie's belly much longer," Fred said around a mouthful of corned beef hash, "But we're not really _talking _about it, if you know what I mean. Mum's…gone a bit spare over the fact that she's having her first grandchild and she doesn't know which one of us to congratulate."

"'Course, we told her that it's really quite appropriate," George added.

"Seeing as she never knows which of us is which 'less she can see our ears anyway –"

"And we already shared everything else, so…"

"But," George said darkly, "Mum did not take kindly to that explanation. In fact, she threatened to hex Fred's ear off too, so that we matched again, flung a cushion at my head, and shrieked at us both for ten minutes straight before bursting into tears and apologising to Angie for her having to witness _our_ bad behaviour."

"Mad woman, our mum." George shook his head mock-sadly, as he passed Angelina the honey to drizzle over her half-eaten slice of dry toast.

"I still can't believe you tried that on her," Ron piped up, shaking his head in disbelief, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his stuffed stomach as Cho leaned her elbow on the back of his chair and ran her fingers through his hair with light affection. "_And_ actually thought it would help. You should bloody well know better by now. When mum goes on the warpath, the only thing to do is _run_, or duck and cover. Just like with Ginny when she gets all shitty."

"Oi!" Ginny protested, glaring daggers at her older brother, and elbowing Harry in the side, looking for support from her boyfriend. "Arse! You shut it, Ronald, or I'll bloody well _make_ you!"

"See what I mean?" Ron laughed and Hermione suppressed a slight smile; Ginny _was _rather like her mother, in some ways – and Ron _was _an arse.

"Ron, I have to deal with her…be nice," Harry said tiredly and earned himself another jab from Ginny, and an exasperated, reluctant smile when he looked beseechingly at her.

The twins shrugged at their younger brother. "Well, it was worth a go."

"It's not like mum could be any _more_ hacked off at us."

"Don't worry, Angelina. Mrs Weasley will adjust. It'll just take her a bit of time," Hermione tried reassuringly, feeling sorry for poor Angelina, and the dark witch shot her a grateful smile if a somewhat doubtful one.

"Well, enough about your little _ménage a trios_, which I really don't give a fuck about. What's happening now that the Order has taken back Hogwarts?" Draco asked bluntly, jabbing his porridge spoon in Harry's direction, who blinked at the sudden change in subject and adjusted his glasses on his nose.

Hermione kicked Draco sharply under the table again and earned herself a half-hearted frown from him; he couldn't even seem to be annoyed at her today. Admittedly, they were both dead on their feet after getting very little sleep, and Hermione knew that _she_ at least felt too exhausted to be snarky, even playfully. Draco looked similarly weary, with horribly dark bruises of sleeplessness beneath his eyes, his skin nearly as pale as the white bandages still swathing his chest beneath his shirt. Watching the sunrise atop the Astronomy tower with Draco had been worth the tiredness, though. Hermione had the feeling that those moments of uninterrupted peace would be few and far between from now until the conclusion of the war.

"We'll be spending the next few days organising people, and bringing those who can fight in here, and fortifying the castle," Harry was saying, stabbing idly at his food. "We have to bring all the Aurors in, except those guarding safehouses that are occupied by non-combatants, and all the Order members who are capable of fighting will come here too."

"So Hogwarts is going to be the site of our last stand, hmm?" Draco asked, and Hermione frowned at his phrasing as she gave up on trying to eat her egg and examined the breakfast feast on the table in front of them. "Don't say 'last stand'," she said with idle disapproval as she filled a bowl with a large selection of fresh fruit, and dolloped plenty of Greek honey yoghurt on top.

"Oh, you bloody well know what I mean, Hermione," Draco complained and stole a rather large chunk of her pineapple off her plate with a smirk. Hermione growled under her breath and jabbed his knuckles with a fork, and then blushed and subsided when she noticed Harry's dryly amused, slightly disturbed expression at their antics.

"Essentially, yes. Although I'd be more inclined to call it the final battle, or _final confrontation_ than 'the last stand'," Harry answered Draco's query with a nod to Hermione's dislike of the phrase 'last stand', and Ron nodded vigorously. "Yeah, I gotta say, _'last stand'_ sounds horribly…"

"Morbid," Hermione finished gloomily for Ron when he appeared lost for the right word, stabbing a piece of persimmon viciously and popping it in her mouth, frown dissipating and turning into a delighted, blissful smile as she chewed. God, that was delicious. And she didn't even like persimmon – or hadn't until she'd gotten pregnant, at least. It appeared mini-Draco liked it perfectly well. At least it wasn't asparagus and honey, or fish and custard or some other horrific concoction.

"Yeah. That," Ron said, undoing his top jeans button and sinking further down into his chair with a rude belch; typical Ron. Hermione looked between Ron and Draco; the former slouched in his chair slurping at a cup of black coffee in grubby tee-shirt and unbuttoned holey jeans, and the other in neat grey dress shirt and clean, smart black trousers, eating with actual manners, and she was immensely glad she'd ended up with Draco Malfoy. It never would have worked out happily between her and Ron – he and Cho were a far better match for each other, as were Hermione and Draco. And _there_ was a thought that a year ago Hermione would have thought was utter madness. And now she was sitting beside Draco at the Gryffindor table, carrying his baby.

Life was so strange sometimes.

"Do you think Voldemort will come and confront you of his own accord?" Draco asked Harry as he poured a cup of tea. "Or will you have to lure him out?"

"Remus and Kingsley think that he'll either attack right away in the next few days, before we have a chance to properly organise and fortify, or he'll leave it up to me to challenge him into coming out of hiding."

"I don't think he'll attack without any sort of bait, or provocation, myself. He found out when he went into my head that you've been destroying horcruxes, as you know, so he's going to be feeling off-balance and weak right now, and history shows that when he feels that way he goes on the _de_fensive, not the _off_ensive," Draco said, automatically passing Hermione a cup of tea with a faint smile, and then pouring and sipping at his own. Hermione felt all warm and domestic inside as she wrapped her hands around the hot tea cup and listened to Harry and Draco talk intently.

"He's a coward at heart, Voldemort." Harry was saying, his face showing both understanding of and contempt toward his adversary, and his dark brows were scrunched down together as he stared into the distance. Hermione wondered if he'd been letting Voldemort into his head still, or if he'd finally started trying to block the Dark wizard, like she thought he should have been all along.

"So you'll issue him a challenge then?" Draco asked, rasing an eyebrow, and Harry nodded briskly. "Not until we're ready though. Maybe in a couple of weeks, once Hogwarts' defences have been thoroughly shored up and fortified, and everyone who is willing to fight with us has arrived, and prepared for it. When exactly that will be – that'll be up to Remus, Kingsley and Professor McGonagall to decide, not me. I'm just the figurehead, really, for people to _'rally behind'_. Ugh."

"Don't sell yourself short, Potter," Draco commented, and then took the compliment out of his words by smirking and finishing, "You make pretty good bait, too."

Harry snorted, and everyone at the Gryffindor table pretended that Draco was his rude, arrogant old self, and no one was friends with him, just tolerating him – but they were all blatantly transparent, Hermione thought, grinning into her tea. Draco had been accepted, whether he liked it or not. And for all his protestations, Hermione was certain he _did_ like it.

She listened as the conversation about preparations was revived by Remus' presence at the table, and Hermione sat back and listened with interest as they discussed tactics, putting in the occasional suggestion or two herself as she sipped at her tea and nibbled at her fruit, waiting for her faint nausea to subside. At least she wasn't vomiting anymore, as she had been just an hour earlier, all over the floor of the Astronomy tower right in front of Draco; horribly embarrassing. But food and tea appeared to settle her pregnant stomach a little, by raising her blood sugar. She wondered absently whether she was going to need a Healer attending her, or if she'd try to get a Muggle obstetrician or midwife, those kinds of questions crowding into her mind and pushing out thoughts of the war.

**# # # # # #**

They walked out of the Great Hall with absolutely nothing to do, Hermione's arm hooked through Draco's comfortably, and the entirety of Hogwarts spread out around them to wander as they wished. Their old stomping grounds, filled with so many memories, but few of them shared; or if shared, negative rather than positive, and it was incredibly strange. Draco remembered staring at Hermione with particular disgust _here_, remembered knocking her down with a well-placed hex at _this_ corner, remembered hoping she'd fall down _those_ stairs…mocking her cruelly with Crabbe and Goyle in _that_ alcove. He could remember staring at her in shock at her transformation at the Yule Ball, during the Tri-Wizard Cup, and having to admit to himself, with great resentment, that she could actually appear relatively pretty sometimes.

It seemed, as they strolled aimlessly, Draco letting Hermione lead them along, that every time they turned a corner, he remembered something else horrible he'd done to her at school, and had to repress the urge to apologise. Most of it was silly, childish stuff, but she had been a child too, then, and Draco had no doubt his words and actions had cut her to the quick. But she smiled up at him, her cheeks pink and her eyes bright, despite the dark smears of weariness beneath them, and Draco remembered that all that had happened a long, long time ago. He slowed to a halt near the entrance to the dungeons, no doubt cleared of bodies now as the rest of Hogwarts was – the house elves had been busy. She looked up at him questioningly, and Draco cleared his throat, nervous, his impulsive proposition sticking in his throat and refusing to come out.

Hermione quirked an eyebrow, her back to the wall and Draco stepped in close, ran his hand over her shoulder and down her arm, took her hand. Their eyes met, hers flickering orange with the reflected torchlight, her fingers curling tight around his, and Draco rubbed his thumb over the soft skin of her hand.

"So, I was thinking that maybe we should find somewhere else to sleep than the Room…" Draco started, not sure if he was suggesting the right thing for either of them, but the words just came out of his mouth regardless now he'd begun. He thought that maybe…maybe it was the right thing, in its own way. "And I thought of my old room, in the dungeons. I doubt anyone would have occupied it since I did; it was one of a dozen private rooms reserved only for senior students who belonged to the old, noble houses, and there were always plenty of rooms available, so, it might still be there…untouched. Just the way I left it."

Draco bit his lip and stared at the ground, feeling stupid for suggesting it and wondering why exactly he'd had the stupid urge to do so. Perhaps it was just the thought of having _Hermione Granger _bent over his old school bed; preferably in her Gryffindor uniform. Oh _Merlin_. Draco suppressed a little gasp at the intrusive, fucking hot as hell thought, and shifted on his feet awkwardly as he felt his dick respond to the mental image. Shit. He shouldn't have said anything. The silence stretched on, and he finally chanced a glance up to meet Hermione's eyes, and saw her studying him with a strange expression on her face. Like she was still trying to work him out. _He _was still trying to work him out, at the moment. After everything he'd gone through in the past year – fuck, over his entire life, Draco had no idea who the hell he was, or who he wanted to be.

"Well, I suppose we could go and see if it's still there, couldn't we?" Hermione said lightly at last, and took his flesh and bone hand in hers, and Draco felt the tension drain out of him, and relief suffuse him. For some reason it had been very important that she say yes. Draco had hoped that who he had been wasn't _entirely_ contemptible to Hermione, despite all the faults he'd had. He had hoped that being in his old room wouldn't disgust her, wouldn't…he wanted her to accept all of him, and part of that was who he had been, if even he wasn't that arrogant little bigot anymore. Erase the past with the present. Take all those old, bad memories and overlay them with fresh, good ones, which would transform everything else. Take the sting out of the bad, take the power out of it. Stupid thoughts, really.

"Are you sure?" Draco couldn't helping asking, a little tentative, a little disbelieving. He didn't want Hermione to go down into the dungeons to even _consider_ sleeping down there, if she wasn't all right with it; he wasn't that selfish, not anymore. Merlin. Sometimes he really_ didn't_ know himself – the old Draco would never have thought of something like that; it wouldn't have concerned him, how Hermione felt. He'd never bothered himself with how Pansy might feel about things, and he'd liked _her_ well enough.

"If your room _is_ still there, with all your belongings still inside," Hermione said with a smile, pulling him after her down into the dimly lit dungeon corridor, "Then I want to see it. All Draco Malfoy's old school things, _exposed_." Her grin was wicked as she glanced back over her shoulder at him. "How can I resist the opportunity to be the know-it-all Muggleborn, poring through Draco Malfoy's things, sullying your room with my mere presence – _sitting on your bed, _even_. _The old you would have a full-blown tantrum at the thought."

Draco winced at the reminder of what his reaction would have been, but then banished it firmly when his mind skidded back to _'sitting on your _bed'. He drew sharp breath, and then caught Hermione into his arms and spun her around, pressed her up against the cold stone wall and kissed her thoroughly, lips on hers, their tongues darting and grazing together, his thigh slipping between hers and pressing up against her pussy, making her moan and grind down against it instinctively. She was immediately wanting and panting, and that turned him on like nothing else, his dick already rock hard and straining at his trousers.

"Sitting?" he whispered in her ear, and flicked his tongue over the lobe, making her shiver in his arms. "I don't think there will be much _sitting_ involved, Hermione. Not with the plans _I _have for you, anyway." She whimpered at that, putty in his hands, her breath coming hot and hard as his hands searched over her firmly, and his thigh bumped against her clit, rhythmic and teasing. Draco smirked to himself as he seized her mouth again, his lips claiming hers rather more demandingly than usual, and wondered idly if Hermione would let him transfigure her current clothing into a Gryffindor uniform…

**# # # # # #**

Draco tapped the plain, heavy door with his wand and muttered a low word, and even in the dim light of the torches down here, Hermione saw him smirk with satisfaction when it swung open with the groaning complaint of disuse. He stepped inside, waving his wand to light the torches on the walls, and Hermione looked around the small space with avid curiosity. This was where Draco had spent his last two years at school; she didn't know what to expect, but she figured it couldn't be too bad if Draco was willing to let her see it. The house elves that kept the castle neat and clean must have continued to look after the bedroom during Draco's long, long absence, and Hermione's first impression was that the room was both very Slytherin, and rather sadly Spartan.

Stone walls were softened a little by heavy hangings – one wall bearing an enormous woven hanging that bore the Slytherin crest, and another wall ornamented with dusty green velvet, draped to look like the curtains to a window although there was only blank stone between the drapes. There was a small four-poster double bed opposite the door covered with a plain black quilt in a satiny looking fabric, a heavy desk and chair up against the wall by the door. A chest of drawers and large wardrobe both sat at one end of the room, a cedar chest at the foot of the bed, and matching bedside table at either side of it. Hermione thought it looked very empty, and devoid of personality. If she'd had her own room completely to herself in sixth or seventh year it would have positively shouted her personality to everyone who entered the room, with books, and Crookshanks' fur, and all sorts of organised clutter everywhere.

There were very few personal belongings in Draco's room. The seventh year textbooks were stacked up on the chest at the end of the bed, a school robe was flung over the bed, and a crisp white shirt and House tie over the back of the desk chair, but they could have belonged to any student. A Quidditch broom stood in a corner, a stack of writing things that carried the Malfoy crest were arranged neatly on the desk by a quill and inkwell, several wizarding fiction novels lay on one bedside table, and a sole picture of Draco with his mother and father as a small child stood on the chest of drawers.

Hermione moved past Draco, who stood frozen just inside the room, and went straight to the photo, picking it up and looking at the miniature Draco, who appeared to be around four or five, in the picture. It was not a formal portrait. It was outside in the gardens of what Hermione assumed was the manor, and a small Malfoy in short trousers and a short-sleeved button-down shirt stood at the end of a stone bench, grinning and waving at the camera. Narcissa sat beside him, in a pale lavender summer dress robe, looking much younger and happier, holding Draco's hand and gesturing at the camera in a 'come here' motion as she smiled. The view wavered and then settled a little lower and on a slight angle, and then Lucius Malfoy hurried into the frame, standing beside Draco and putting his hand on the small boy's shoulder, smiling down at him. It was a moment of naked, unguarded affection, the love in Lucius' eyes very plain to see, and Hermione pressed her lips shut on a gasp at the tender, proud affection in Draco's father's face, so different to now.

And then the photo looped back to Draco, grinning and waving at the camera, Narcissa beside him, and Hermione's finger traced lightly over the small Draco's face. Her heart hurt for him. The adult Draco snatched the photo out of Hermione's hands and slammed it back down onto the chest of drawers, laying the photo deliberately facedown. She swallowed hard and pictured young-Lucius' face; warmer and happier, with none of the haggard, creeping madness that had consumed him now.

"I don't want to see it," Draco said in a low voice, and Hermione thought how sad that was that a memory he had obviously once thought was happy enough to merit display in this stark, impersonal room, was now tainted irreparably by Lucius' actions. She dropped her eyes to the floor and left the issue, not wanting to push it. Little Draco was stuck in her head though – all big grey eyes, pointy chin, and ear to ear grin, his blonde hair neatly cut, his stiffly-pressed clothes quaintly old-fashioned, like so many wizarding things. She couldn't help wondering if their child would look like Draco, or like her, or be a balanced mixture. She realised her fingers were twitching along the edge of the dresser, and Draco was eying her oddly.

"I don't want to see it," he said again, quite firmly, and pushed the picture further back. Hermione jerked her hand back as if it had been smacked, and gave him an apologetic look.

"You were a handsome little boy," Hermione said lightly as she walked over to the bed and sat down on the edge, bounced it a little to get the feel for it, her eyes on Draco, who was idly searching through his drawers, looking over the meagre contents. He flicked her an amused glance.

"Wondering what the spawn will look like, are you?"

"_Spawn?_" Hermione asked indignantly, and Draco smirked and shrugged. "Well, we don't know if it's a boy or girl yet. But we do know that it's our spawn. A little Slytherin-Gryffindor hybrid thing."

"Merlin, how on earth is your mother going to react to that?" Hermione asked as she picked up one of the novels, on Draco's bedside table. "_The Wizard's Dilemma_" it read, with a vivid illustration of a wizard riding a dragon on the cover, rather mutilated enemies strewing the ground beneath him. She smirked at the pulpy appearance of the novel – she would have thought Draco would go in for more serious fiction, although she should have guessed he liked all sorts, considering his varied taste in Muggle fiction.

"She'll be happy, once she gets over the shock. She's always loved kids," Draco said absently, and Hermione scooped up a large textbook that hadn't been on the curriculum that had been in Draco's bedside table drawer, curling her legs up under her on the bed. She skimmed through the – exceedingly dry, even by her standards – textbook, and upon reaching the middle, a small magazine fell out onto her lap. Hermione's cheeks flared red and her mouth made an 'o' as she stared at the offending publication; "_Wicked ,Wicked Witches_" the lurid cover proclaimed, above a magical photograph of a naked woman sprawled on in a nest of bright cushions, facing the camera, her legs spread, and her fingers…

"Oh my _god_. Oh _Jesus…_"

Hermione shoved the magazine away from her in instinctive shock and Draco looked up from his chest of drawers and saw the magazine lying in the middle of the bed, the woman in the photograph still shoving her fingers _in and out _and Hermione couldn't stop _staring _at it. She'd seen Muggle porn mags before, but this…it was _moving_ even though it wasn't a video, and…and… She just hadn't been _expecting_ it. Draco dropped the shirt he was holding and _threw_ himself for the magazine like it was life or death, snatching it up and rolling it into a tube to obscure the woman on the cover, his cheeks as red as Hermione's as he stared speechlessly at her, utterly, completely, _totally_ horrified.

He was behaving as though he'd been caught in _flagrante_ by his mother, not as though his girlfriend – fiancée – had unexpectedly stumbled across his porn stash and been startled by the motion of the magical photos. And admittedly, what those motions were, because, _well_, they were rather explicit. But Hermione was nothing if not modern – there was nothing wrong with pornographic material. And yet the way he was acting, Hermione rather thought that Draco thought she would think so. She blinked, trying to work out if her rambling thoughts were actually making sense anymore, or just panicked flailing. She decided that maybe the wizarding world was rather more old-fashioned in regards to pornography, as it was with everything else.

"I, ah…sorry," she said at last, fiddling nervously with the hardback, feeling like she'd intruded horrifically somehow, even though it was hardly surprising that a teenage boy would have a porn mag in his room. She just hadn't been expecting it; that was all. _Merlin. _How mortifying. Draco bit his lip and then shoved the magazine in a drawer, and slid it slowly shut, looking as awkward and tongue-tied as Hermione had ever seen him, running his hand through his hair helplessly. There was a dead silence, and then Draco cleared his throat and gave her an awkward, faltering smile. "I, ah, forgot that was there…"

"Obviously," Hermione said pertly, grinning at him and feeling the tension in the air break a bit as he snorted a laugh and ran a hand through his hair again, making tufts of it stick up wildly. She crawled over the bed toward the side Draco stood at, and he moved forward to the edge so Hermione could go up on her knees and wrap her arms around him, laying her cheek against his chest. The lingering embarrassment faded further, now they weren't staring at each other helplessly. "You're not going to try to tell me you just read it for the articles, are you?" she teased him, and looked up at him. Draco smirked, his fingers sliding through Hermione's hair, his awkward nervousness and blush gone now that he realised she wasn't going to have a fit over the publication.

"No. I always read it for the tits and arse. Good wanking material," he told her bluntly, complete confidence restored to his tone, along with his superior smirk.

"Ah. I…see." Hermione's mind went to a very, very naughty place. Picturing Draco lying back on this very bed, staring at the magazine, his trousers unzipped and shoved down as he fisted his cock in his hand. His cheeks flushed and his lower lip caught between his teeth, his breath coming heavy and ragged… Arousal welled up in her, hot and ripe, and the flesh between her legs throbbed suddenly at the mental image, her breath jerked in. Draco's grey eyes were faintly amused on hers, and he dragged his thumb over her cheek.

"_You_ like to read, Hermione," Draco said, a sly drawl to his tone, one eyebrow arching. "I could…lend it to you, if you like. Perhaps you might find the…ah, _articles _interesting."

Hermione choked out a husky little laugh, finding the idea of looking at the magazine _with_ Draco actually rather appealing, to her own surprise. Maybe watching him…while… But not right now. Right now she felt rather too impatient to play around like that. She seized Draco's shirt in her hands and jerked him down to her, pushed her face up and kissed him hard. He still tasted like brown sugar from breakfast, and a little _mm_ of pleasure slipped from her mouth into his at the taste of him, and – _oh_ – the feel of him. He was stubbled just enough that his chin prickled and rasped deliciously at her skin, and his lips were so soft, his teeth nipping bluntly at her lips, his tongue sliding hot and slick over hers and sending sudden darts of want wrenching through her. Hermione pulled him down further, and they tipped back onto the bed, Draco catching himself on his hands, his mouth on hers, taking the control back from her, sucking and biting and licking and Hermione drove her fingers into his hair and grabbed fistfuls of it, her hips bucking up and little whimpers jolting out of her.

She wanted him, so badly. Draco's mouth skimmed from hers over her cheek and jaw, his face dipping into her neck, nuzzling and nipping, and Hermione squirmed at the exquisite, almost ticklish sensitivity he aroused there. She laughed and tried to wriggle away as he teased at her neck, the pleasure and ticklishness nearly unbearable, confusing her senses and making her breathless and panting. His erection dug against her, hard and hot through their clothes, and she arched her body up, pressing into it and making him huff a growl out, his fingers digging into the swell of her hip as he thrust against her. Her hands searched their way down his body, nails dragging over his back, fingers pinching at the ticklish spots at his sides, making him swear and flinch and laugh and groan, and then finally, she was undoing his trousers.

And then they were both stripping each other in a frantic, hurried flurry, and half his buttons popped off his shirt, and he jerked her bra hooks right off, and then they were naked on the bed Draco Malfoy had slept on, and hated her on. It was an extremely strange experience, to be all tangled up with him, his cock hot and silky digging into her thigh and his head bent to her breast, teasing at her nipple, on the bed that had been his _before_. Before all this, before everything had changed. It seemed right that they christen it, and make it _theirs_. And then Draco's fingers slid down to her dripping wet pussy and unceremoniously pushed inside her, and all rational thought flew out of Hermione's head.

"Oh _god…Draco…_" She felt him smile against her breast as she gasped his name, and then his tongue laved over her nipple slow and hot and wet. Her breasts were so sensitive it made his tongue feel nearly _rough_, and unbearably good, and Hermione squirmed on the satiny quilt, shutting her eyes and wondering if _this_ was what it would have been like, if they had somehow been together while they were still at school. Draco's long, elegant fingers were _pressure_ and _pleasure_ inside her, filling her up and stretching her, and Hermione babbled his name and blurred epithets over and over in gasps and moans. She panted and mewled shamelessly as his tongue laved at her nipples one after the other, and his thumb circled over her torturously sensitive clit, and his fingers curled and thrust inside her roughly. Her hands were clawed, digging into his shoulders desperately, and her hips pushed up, her back arched.

She imagined the two of them, several years younger, on this very bed, the younger her feeling squirmy and nervous and _naughty_ because it was Draco Malfoy, and she was down in the dungeons with him, and… Merlin, the idea just unravelled from a little bud into a full blown fantasy, playing like a film behind her eyes and _Merlin_ it made everything in her body ratchet that much tighter, tenser, more pleasurable. The coherent part of Hermione's brain was shocked that she was getting off over the pretence of a younger Draco calling a younger Hermione filthy things while he fucked her with his fingers, in secret in the dungeons. The incoherent part was just lapping up every last bit of the pleasure that Draco – and the fantasy-Draco – were evoking in Hermione's body.

"_Nggh_. Oh. Oh. _Oh. _Oh _g-g-god_. _Dr-a-a-aco…_" Hermione came within moments; his name wrenched and whined from between her gritted teeth, her fingernails drawing blood where they dug into his shoulders. Her back arched, and Draco bit her nipple lightly, his fingers curling further inside her, his thumb still circling her clit, and a ball of tight-knotted ecstasy exploded from her clit and her pussy outward, rippling radiating through Hermione from her core to her fingers and toes, and she didn't even have the breath to scream. All she could do was whine and hiss his name and make incoherent, faint sounds that reflected the wrenching pleasure. It was… Her pussy twitched and throbbed around Draco's fingers with the aftershocks, and she could feel him smiling – no, _smirking_ – against her skin again.

She came back to herself with a little sigh as the tension of her orgasm gently dissipated, leaving her limp and flushed and sweat-sticky, and almost embarrassed at the intensity of her orgasm, and her screams. Draco wriggled his fingers and she gasped and opened her eyes, meeting his smug gaze. He smirked, and wriggled his fingers again, and Hermione squeaked and tried to scoot back. Draco eased his fingers out of her then, his eyes still boring into hers, his mouth still tipped in that lazy, superior smile, and lifted himself up over her, his skin cool on hers, except for his erection, hot and hard.

"Want you," Draco said in a low whisper, his hand grabbing her hip, wet with her own slick juices. "Want you." His eyes flickered dark and narrowed, pupils dilating, and a wicked gleam in them. He bent his head, lips brushing against her ear. "Granger," he purred, teasing and dark. "Want you. _Granger_…" Like he knew what she was thinking, like he was reading her mind. "Let me fuck you." A shudder ran through Hermione's body, like a _good_ hum of electricity, buzzing along her bones, and she bit her lip and whimpered, shutting her eyes and imagining that younger, colder Draco that she'd hated was the one begging to fuck her, and a smirk curled her lips, because really, it was the same Draco. The same Draco who'd called her mudblood and despised her, was begging her to fuck him – loved her, was having a baby with her. Life was ironic, sometimes.

"Let me fuck you," Draco said again, more insistently this time, and Hermione realised he was asking permission, being that she was just lying there, lost in her own head, and not responding. It was rather sweet of him. Not to assume. She smiled weakly, still dazed and spinning from her orgasm.

"Please," she said. "Please oh god yes _please_ Draco."

Hermione went limp with bliss on the bed as she felt his cock nudging against her, and let her legs fall wider apart, perfectly sated and contented, just luxuriating in the feeling as Draco slowly pushed into her. Millimetre by millimetre, and her fingers dragged through his hair and her hips lifted off the bed a little, her heels digging into the mattress as he slid inside her. Slowly. So exquisitely, torturously slowly, and she could feel herself spasm around his erection, wet and tender, and just as greedy to be taken as Draco was to take her, for all that she'd already cum hard enough to nearly shake her whole body half-apart.

"_So g-o-o-ood_," she murmured in a hitching, faint voice, her legs coming up to lock around him, and he thrust, rocking them together and pushing himself further in, and Hermione mewled at the feeling of Draco buried so deliciously deeply inside her. He growled in her ear and nuzzled at her neck, thrusting steadily, and deep, their skin sliding sweat-slick together and hot and she could feel his heart beating madly in his chest, his breath coming in ragged little pants. She clung to him, feeling his heart beat against her chest and his hot breath on her neck, his weight resting on his elbows so that he pinned her to the bed without crushing the breath out of her. The ceiling was grey stone above her, and he was thrusting so deep it hurt a little, deep inside, and then he was speeding up, speeding up…faster…deeper…

Hermione's breath began to shorten too in expectation and anticipation of Draco coming inside her, of the shock of pleasure it created in her, like a muted echo of his orgasm rippling through _her_. He lost his rhythm, hips jerking in a few jagged, ragged motions, a low noise whining hoarse from his lips, muffled from the way he'd pressed his mouth to her neck in a brief almost-bite that made her shiver all over deliciously. His teeth pressed firmly against her flesh, his hips snapped into her and she could _feel _the warmth of his cum inside her, could feel the way his every muscle went rigid with tension.

"Oh _fuck_," Draco groaned almost reverently as he stilled above Hermione, and then sank down against her, catching his breath, his heart still thud-thud-thudding hard enough to feel like it was trying to crash out of his chest.

"Oh _fucking…Merlin_." He rolled off her after planting a kiss to her shoulder, his cock sliding out of her and Hermione could feel his cum seep out, dripping onto the black bedcovers, and wondered where her wand had gone so she could cast a _scourgify_. But Draco was up on one elbow beside her, dropping a kiss on her temple, his fingers tracing lazily over the bite mark she'd left on her shoulder. A faint scar now, even though she hadn't done anything to heal it – purplish-silver, and hardly noticeable. _His_ mark – and Hermione really did rather like the primal symbolism of it.

"Shit, that was amazing." Draco smiled at her dazedly and lazily, lopsided and wavering, his cheeks hot pink and his hair mussed into unruly pale spikes and tufts. All his defences were down, and he looked very vulnerable and young, and so amazingly hot. Hermione pushed her fingers through his hair, and smiled back at him. "It was. Extremely. As always." She shut her eyes and lay there peacefully, concentrating on the feel of his finger tip tracing around and around the bite scar. He had asked her several days ago why she'd left it untouched, and she had told him, '_because you gave it to me_' and felt awkward and silly, but Draco had just looked very grave for a moment, nodded slowly, and kissed the scar.

"I, ah…" Draco began and Hermione opened her eyes to his slightly worried expression. "Hmm?"

"I didn't – we can't…hurt the…?" He dragged his finger over her stomach, and she chuckled and shook her head. "No. It's minuscule, at this point. And not up there, in my stomach, you idiot, but down around here." She shifted his large, warm hand right down to the bottom of her abdomen, half over her pubic bone. "Honestly, what _do_ they teach you in school? Oh, that's right – there _wasn't _any sex education at Hogwarts." She smirked at his indignant expression, but he didn't take his hand away, just left it splayed out there, a funny expression on his face. Hermione watched Draco carefully; every little shift in the set of his features, his eyes a dark charcoal kind of grey, contemplative and fixed on where his hand rested, a thoughtful little twist to his mouth.

"I think maybe we should see about paying my mother a visit, if communication restrictions have been lifted," Draco said after a long silence, eyes sliding up to Hermione's face, and she smiled at him broadly. "I think that's a very good idea. If Fred and George are any example, waiting until the mother of your baby is starting to show, doesn't work out that smoothly."

"I think it's more the 'and by the way, mum, we don't know which one of us is the daddy of your first grandchild' that pissed Mrs Weasley off, rather than the timing of _when _she found out," Draco said dryly, untangling himself from Hermione and sliding off the bed. His skin was pale and smooth, most of the scars he'd accumulated over the past months gone, save the swirling ridged scars on the right side of his abdomen that Bellatrix had left there so long ago. Hermione watched Draco as he found and started pulling on his shorts in the soft torchlight that illuminated the room, admiring the shift of muscles beneath his skin, the angles and lines of his lean body.

"Mmm," she agreed lazily, stretching and dragging the black quilt up around her; she needed a shower. There was something to be said for a spell that cleaned the dirt off you, but it didn't leave Hermione _feeling_ clean.

"Is there a bathroom down here somewhere?" she asked him, hitching the bedcovers up and balling up the dragging ends in one fist as best she could, and Draco eyed her with a faint smirk. "Just down the hallway. It's the senior _boys'_ bathroom, but I doubt there will be anyone else using it." He grimaced and Hermione gave him a sympathetic look – none of the Slytherins had stayed behind. There had been a few students who had wanted to, but they had all been underage. Draco sighed and she could see him shrug off the strain and sadness of being the only one in his House near his own age who wasn't either caught up in the blood purity bigotry, or too cowardly to stand up for what was right. Draco had changed so much, Hermione thought, suddenly very proud of him.

"Come on," Draco said, taking her hand and tugging her out of the bedroom, the stone chill beneath her feet, along the empty Slytherin corridors, the torchlight flickering eerily. It was strange, to be wandering the halls naked beneath the heavy bedcover, which dragged behind her like a train; Draco in just his cotton boxer shorts, his hand at the small of her back as he guided her along to the senior boys' bathroom. It was large and lovely, although not as big or nice as the prefects' bathroom, and all done in white and green tiles, with several large bathtubs, half a dozen closed off toilet cubicles, and the showers. The showers were an open row of eight along one wall, and Draco turned on two, the steam rising up and billowing through the room, and then shucked his shorts off casually.

He unwound Hermione from the bedcover and led her into the water, his eyes dark, his cock hard again, and she shivered in anticipation. She knew what was coming. He pinned her up against the wall, the water pouring over his head, plastering his hair down and turning it a darker blonde, water running off the end off his nose and sheeting over his parted lips. He scraped his fringe out of his eyes and blinked at her through the water, which beaded heavy on his eyelashes. And then he kissed her, and his mouth was hot contrast to the cold tiles of the shower wall, his erection pressed into her belly, and his hands seized her wrists and pressed them up against the wall. Hermione moaned into his mouth and her hips bucked out; she wanted him again, her body aching and throbbing, and she couldn't get enough of him, her tongue delving hungrily into his mouth and one leg coming up to curl against his and lock them together.

Draco let go of her wrists before long and pushed her down, onto her knees on the tiles, the water half-drowning her, drenching her hair and making it stick sleek to her head, cascading in runnels down her breasts and dripping off her nipples, wetting the short vee of soft hair between her legs. Hermione had to shut her eyes against the water, and something warm nudged against her lips – his erection she realised with a little shock – and she opened her mouth immediately. Let him slide it into her mouth and then swirled her tongue over it, and sucked hard. Laved the head of Draco's erection and lapped her way down the shaft, twisted her hand on it, pumping it slowly, and sucking hard, teasing and working it. Her hand teased over his scrotum and her mouth moved down, hand sliding up and down over his erection while she lapped at his balls, hoping that he liked it because she hadn't done it much before. She was a maddened mix of want, nervousness and _power_, and her hands and mouth moved steadily over him.

Draco made a soft growling groan when Hermione dragged her tongue up the shaft and then sucked hard. He swayed forward, hands slapping against the wall to hold himself up, and Hermione smiled triumphantly at the fact that _she_ was doing this to him. His body sheltered her from the water now as he braced himself against the wall, and she peeked up and saw his face as he moaned again; his eyes shut and the tendons in his neck taut, his cheeks reddened and teeth denting his lower lip. It made her all wet and melty and quivering inside to see Draco like this, so vulnerable and defenceless, his hips bucking forward and pushing his cock down her throat – _oh,_ too far, and Hermione gagged for a moment and her eyes watered. Draco pulled back, eyes opening onto hers and a curse slipping from his lips, followed by a rough, low apology, his voice shaking and tight. One hand lifted from the wall and his cold fingertips traced over her cheek and jaw.

"Sorry. Didn't – mean – to….just…_fuck_, Hermione. So…fucking good…"

Hermione swirled her tongue over the head of his cock and then smiled up at him by way of accepting his choked out apology, one of her hands against his hip now, ready to push him back if he thrust too far forward again. But Draco took her arms before she could keep going and lifted her roughly to her feet instead, pressed her up against the wall and hefted her up. Hermione squeaked and her legs clamped around his waist automatically, her shoulder blades jammed into the tiles and his hands gripped her bum, the silver one gripping harder and more painfully, because he didn't _quite_ always know his strength yet. And then his erection was pressing into her, in-in-_in…oh Merlin __**yes**_, and Hermione's head fell back against the wall and a moan slithered from her lips as Draco thrust.

**# # # # # #**

"– and if it's at all possible, I'd like to go visit her – and Pansy – with Hermione. Mother doesn't know that Hermione and I are engaged, and she doesn't know Hermione's pr–" Draco broke off suddenly, face shutting down and features going instantly blank as he realised his _fucking _stupid slip, and Lupin just grinned at him, clapped him on the shoulder. "It's all right, Malfoy. I know Hermione's…er, condition. Dora ended up letting it slip to me."

Draco frowned, a wave of an indignant, possessive sort of anger rising up in him. "You knew before I did?"

"No," Lupin hastened to reassure him. "No. I knew something was going on, but Dora wouldn't tell me until after we'd taken the castle, in the early hours yesterday. I'm assuming Hermione told you before then?"

Draco smirked at the older man. "I figured it out just before the mission."

"Ah. Good. Very good."

"Anyway, as I was trying to say," Draco began again sharply, still a little irritated that Lupin had known, "My mother doesn't know anything about the situation and what has happened in the past few months, except that I was captured, and that now I'm safe and unharmed. Am I right?"

"You're correct. We saw no point in giving her any information but the essentials, and we didn't know if you wanted her knowing that you and Hermione were engaged or not, so we thought it best not to mention that to her."

"Thank you. I appreciate that," Draco said stiffly, somewhat grateful. He would have thought the Order would be far more gossipy and interfering, and he was glad they hadn't just _assumed_ he'd want his mother to know his private business. "But I think it would probably be appropriate for me to tell her that Hermione and I are engaged and having her first grandchild, and I'd like to inform her in person."

"Mm. You're probably right about telling her," Lupin allowed with a faint smile. "All right then. I'll see if I can get an Auror who's been to your mother's safehouse to apparate you and Hermione as soon as possible – probably sometime tomorrow."

"Appreciate it," Draco nodded at Lupin and turned to leave the library – set up as the organisational hub for the Order in Hogwarts – briskly. He stopped mid-step as Lupin called, "Malfoy?"

"Yes?" Draco eyed the lycanthrope dubiously, still not easy with his cousin's husband – he doubted he ever would be.

"Congratulations," was all Lupin said with a grin, and Draco couldn't help his wide, absurdly proud smile as he realised he actually _merited_ congratulations. Good things had actually happened to him lately, after all of the bad he'd fucking suffered through. He was engaged. He had both hands again. And he was having a child with the witch he loved.

"Thanks," he said casually to Lupin, still smiling broadly, shoving his hands in his pockets and strolling out of the library wondering how Hermione was going with _her _little mission. He'd wanted to be there with her when she told her friends, but she'd looked a little uncertain, and said that for all that Harry and Ron were friendly with him, it might be best if Draco wasn't there. Just in case. But he wasn't planning on hanging around forever waiting for her to come and find him – she'd had a good five minutes headstart on Draco, which was plenty of time to say, _'Draco got me pregnant'_, and Potter and Weasley to absorb the shock, he figured.

Draco turned in the direction of the stairs, heading for the Headmaster's office, which was where the Marauder's Map – living in the library at the moment for the Order to make use of, eliminating the need to patrol the castle – had said Potter and Weasley were.

**# # # # # #**

"Harry? Ron?" Hermione called as she hurried up the steps into what she still thought of as Dumbledore's office, her heart beating quickly in her chest and her stomach all sickened with worry. She was both excited about telling them, and horribly nervous. She had a feeling they were going to give her shocked looks at least, not just because the baby was Draco's, but because she was _Hermione_. If she had been almost any other witch around their age, they wouldn't be half so surprised, but children had always been firmly something for the far off future in Hermione's opinion. She had planned on having a career and an independent life before settling down to have children, especially with witches and wizards living so long – she had 'til she was fifty to have children, and didn't need to worry about dying before her children were grown, because she'd have another century of life left in her, if she was lucky. She thought that was partly why she and Ron wouldn't have worked out.

Before Draco had stumbled onto the doorstep of the Godric's Hollow house, what seemed like oh so long ago now, Hermione had been seriously considering taking several years after the war to study at a Muggle University – disappearing from the wizarding world for a little while, and taking the time to recuperate, away from the reminders of the war. Maybe spend some time with her parents, repairing the bonds of trust she'd sliced away when she'd toyed with their memories. And then she had planned to seek out the equivalent of tertiary study in the wizarding world – an apprenticeship, of some sort. Perhaps involving potions. Or something revolving around Muggles – the Muggle Liaison office, maybe. Or teaching Muggle Studies, even. Something that would let her regain her balance – that would occupy her without over-testing her. Getting into a relationship hadn't even been on her radar, and children had been something that hadn't even crossed her mind, except to think _'not for a __**very**__ long time'_.

And now here she was, engaged and pregnant at just nineteen, in the middle of a war. _Merlin_.

"Ron? Harry?" It would be just her luck if they'd left Dumbledore's office between her seeing them on the Map and getting here, without managing to pass them in the corridors. But then Ron's carroty hair poked out from behind some big thingamajig that was squeaking faintly like rusted parts struggling to work – mysteriously, because Hermione could see no movement whatsoever. He grinned at her cheerfully. "'Lo, 'Mione. What do you think this is, then?" He frowned at the enormous thing – a hopelessly twisted sculpture of metal, bubbled glass, neon shoelaces, and Christmas tree ornaments. "I've been staring at it for over a bloody hour and I still can't even begin to figure out what it could be."

"Goodness, Ron, _I_ don't know. Half the stuff up here looks like worthless scrap, and the other half looks like it's the brilliant invention of some genius, and you know, I can't quite decide which belongs in which category." She smiled at Ron, trying not to look as nervous as she felt. "Where's Harry? The Map said he was up here."

Ron jerked his thumb toward the pensieve. "Snape left him some vials of memories." Well that was news to Hermione. She'd known that Harry hadn't had more than a few moments to speak with Snape, before the greasy-haired ex-potions professor had to go, but she'd heard nothing about any memories. "Is it safe?" was the first thing she said, worried all over because anything involving Harry _and_ Snape seemed to go badly for Harry, somehow. What if Snape had been _using_ Hermione somehow? What if it had all been some kind of elaborate trap? Hermione knew that was unlikely, and it was, as far as she knew, impossible to use memories viewed through a pensieve as weapons, but still – she hoped Harry had consulted with Remus or Professor McGonagall first, and she had the sinking feeling he _hadn't_. "Did he tell anyone else about the memories?"

"Well, memories can't _hurt_ you, right?" Ron asked, scratching at his head. "And, um, er, no…he didn't, exactly. He said that seeing as _I _was here…" Ron trailed off as Hermione glared at him, hands planting themselves at her hips. "Merlin's _pants_, I can't leave you two alone for a bloody moment without you rushing off headlong into trouble."

"I'm fine, 'Mione," Harry said exasperatedly, startling her out of her growing irritation, and she spun to face him. "Harry!"

He was rather pale and his dark brows were scrunched together in consternation, those usually brilliant green eyes looking immensely tired behind his glasses. His shoulders were slumped and he looked years older – years and years, and she stepped forward to him and put her hand on his arm, worried.

"Harry. Are you all right? You viewed memories that Snape left you? You never told _me_ you were going to do that." Hermione knew that in the few moments Harry and Snape had spoken, Snape had managed to assure Harry that he was indeed still working on their side. He'd told Harry – but not quite managed to convince him – that Snape killing Dumbledore had been Dumbledore's plan all along. And the greasy ex-professor had assured Harry that he _would_ kill Nagini before the final confrontation. Hermione supposed that the memories that Harry had just viewed had substantiated Snape's story, but why did Harry look so _tired?_ Like…

"Are you all right?" she asked him again, eyes full of concern, and Harry shook himself from his reverie and smiled tightly at her, nodded. "I'll be fine. I – Snape is definitely working on our side, we've got no worries about that. But there was a lot I saw that…well, it'll take a while for me to…process. I…I think I'm going to go for a walk. Maybe find Ginny."

Hermione bit her lip. She'd summoned up all her courage to come up here and tell the two boys, and if Harry went without her telling him, she couldn't tell just Ron, and not Harry, and who knew _when_ she'd get up the courage to admit it again. "Wait," she burst out, and Harry stopped and glanced back at her, Ron sauntered forward and raised an eyebrow at her, and Hermione sank onto one of the chairs in front of Dumbledore's desk. "I, ah, actually came up here to tell you something." She swallowed hard and stared at her hands for a moment, the words not coming, and Harry and Ron stared impatiently at her.

"What?" Ron asked at last, hurrying her along, and Hermione gulped and raised her eyes to the two pairs that stared back at her – sharp, bright blue and tired, dulled green. "I'm pregnant."

The room just _stopped_ for a moment. Everything just _stopped_. And then Ron made a squeaking sound and then began to choke, trying to say _'What? You're __**what?**__'_ between coughs, and Hermione suppressed a nervous little smile, waiting for Ron's paroxysms to stop. "I know. I was rather surprised too. I mean, it's hardly what I had planned," she said into the silence, staring fixedly at her lap instead of Ron's shocked and half-outraged expression, and Harry's dully surprised one. "I wasn't expecting to…_well. _But I'm very happy about it." She raised her eyes now and pinned each of them with a glare, just _daring_ them to get shirty with her. "Draco and I are _both_ very happy. And I would hope that my two best friends in all the world would be happy for me too." Hermione let her stare turn from stern to hopeful, and nibbled on her lip, waiting for their reactions.

It was Harry who responded first, of course. He pulled her to her feet and into a tight hug, half squeezing the life out of her, and she could see Ron still making a great impression of a goldfish over Harry's shoulder.

"I am happy. I am, Hermione," Harry murmured in her ear, sounding very heartfelt and not at all forced, thank Merlin. "Congratulations. Honestly. If you're happy, then that's wonderful." Hermione smiled with relief and hugged Harry back just as tightly. "You don't mind that it's, well, Draco?" she asked a little nervously as Harry let her go, and he shrugged. "I dunno. Malfoy's not a half bad bloke, really, once you get past his whole arrogant act. And odd as it sounds; at least I know he'll always look after you, and the little mini-you in there."

"So do you," Hermione said, beaming at Harry, suffused with relief, because even if Ron was horrified, at least she knew Harry was on her side, and if Harry was okay with it, Ron would come around eventually. "You're a good friend, Harry. You're always there for me when I need you to be."

A shadow flew over Harry's face, but was gone so quick Hermione thought she'd just imagined it, and then he was smiling again, but his eyes still looked very old and tired. "Of course I have been, 'Mione. And now you've got Malfoy. Too," he tacked on the last word, like an afterthought, and his smile wavered a bit. "Now, I hate to just run off after your bit of great news, but I really do need to go and…think. Snape left me an awful lot of memories, and I need to sort through them, make sense of them." He passed a hand over his eyes wearily, and Hermione nodded, concerned, and full of curiosity as to what memories exactly Snape had left him.

"Of course, Harry. If you want to talk…just come find me. All right?"

"Thanks, 'Mione." Harry nodded at her and then raised an eyebrow at Ron, a silent communication that Hermione understood to be warning Ron not go off his rocker at Hermione, and she smiled worriedly at the redhead as Harry slouched down the stairs and left the two of them alone. Hermione cleared her throat and smoothed her hands over her hair – positively wild today – and Ron shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.

"So… Malfoy knocked you up, huh?" Ron asked rather rudely, scuffing his toes on the rug, and Hermione nodded. "Yup," she assenting, popping her lips on the 'p' and nodding, feeling horribly awkward, the beginnings of irritation stirring. Ron fairly radiated a sort of confused displeasure.

"Thought you were good at charms? How'd you get up the duff by accident?" And there he went, starting to ask her all the questions Harry had been too distracted to ask. Hermione pursed her lips. "It was while we were captured," she said bluntly and shortly, and looked away, hoping Ron would hear the pain in her voice that those memories created, and shut up about it. He did, thankfully. "Oh," was all he said, slightly shamefacedly, and then a moment later he rallied and rather accusingly asked, "And you're happy about it, then?"

"I do believe I _said_ that, Ronald." She was pert and brusque with him, and he made a chastised little face and nodded quickly. "Course you did. Course." But he was frowning and his bright blue eyes were darkened, his generous mouth turned down at the corners. "You. Having a baby with _Malfoy_. Bloody hell, Hermione. That's just – _insane…_"

"I don't see why you're annoyed!" Hermione couldn't help exclaiming, glaring at him. "You drink with Draco all the time, and seem to get along fine with him! You're all but bloody friends with him, really, Ron! And you didn't freak out when we got engaged. So what's so different about _this_ that you're acting like _that?_" She flailed a hand at him, all breathless and sweaty with anger and fear that Ron really was going to make things horrid and difficult and unpleasant.

Ron shrugged helplessly, his frown disappearing in an instant, an apologetic, confused look taking over his face. "It's not that it's _Malfoy_, as such. It's that you're _pregnant_ and it's Malfoy's? Oh shit, I dunno how to explain it. It's just…really bloody weird, Hermione. After so many years of hating Malfoy… And it's _you_ – I just didn't really picture _you_ getting pregnant _now_… You know? It's all…like the world just got tipped upside-down." Ron took a deep breath and let it out slowly, his annoyance completely faded. He composed his face and then stepped forward and opened his arms to her, tentatively. "But I'll get over the weirdness. Promise. And I'm sorry I was being a bit of a –"

"A prat?" Hermione asked pointedly even as Ron enfolded her into his arms, and he nodded placatingly, his chin bumping down on top of her head. "A prat. Yes. I'm sorry I was a prat. And…congratulations on your baby ferret, 'Mione, really."

"Ron!" Hermione jerked back and thumped him on the arm, but he was grinning and so was she and everything was suddenly, dizzyingly all right again; the brief wobble had steadied out, and the world was sunny once more.

"Honestly, congratulations." Ron repeated earnestly, wisely not mentioning the word ferret in reference to her incipient child again, even in jest, and Hermione nodded with satisfaction as they headed out of Dumbledore's office together. "Thank you, Ron."

She trotted down the stone spiral staircase beside Ron, wondering whether Draco had managed to secure a visit to see Narcissa, to give her the good news. "Now the only really important person left to tell is Draco's mother. I imagine the rest of the Order won't care much one way or the other really, they're all too distracted by the war, and their own lives, and well, even if I could tell my parents they wouldn't know who on earth I was." That was a rather bitter pill to swallow. Hermione was pregnant for the first time – and engaged – and she couldn't even tell her own mum and dad. She couldn't have her mum be there for her, throughout the whole experience. It meant she didn't have to risk their disapproval, but she'd take their possible disapproval in buckets if she could just tell them.

"Fuck. I don't envy you telling Malfoy's mum. What do you want to bet she'll faint on the spot at the idea of her son producing a child with a Muggleborn, and out of wedlock at that? No offence, 'course, 'Mione, but I bet you that's how _she'll _see it. She'll likely have a bloody fit." Ron snorted with amusement at the thought. "If she does, you have to show me the memory in the pensieve. Please?"

Hermione grimaced. "Ron, it's not a toy to just view memories for fun. It has a _purpose. _And…maybe she won't… She didn't react too badly at all when Draco told her that he and I were together. If we break the news about the engagement first, she might not take the pregnancy too badly."

"Hah, so you hope, 'Mione. But I have my doubts. This _is _Narcissa Malfoy we're talking about, right? The hoity-toity pureblood bitch Narcissa Malfoy, right?" The stone gargoyle began grinding slowly back into place behind them as they stepped out into the corridor together, and Ron shot Hermione a mischievous glance. "Maybe Fred and George could start a betting pool on her reaction, and share the take with you, like a bit of a consolation – if she does take it badly, least you'll get something out of it."

"Ronald Bilious Weasley!" Hermione's voice rose to a shrill imperative and Ron winced as it pierced his ears, and nimbly sidestepped her attempted smack at his arm. "Don't you bloody _dare_, or I will tell your _mother!_"

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**Author's Note:** Loads of smut this time. I'm not sure how that happened, but I got a bit carried away. First I thought, ooh, sex in Draco's old room? YES. And then I was like, mm, shower sex, so so _yes_. Had to have that in there. So we ended up with heaps of the sexing. Next chapter, they go to see Narcissa, and the war-focused plot will move along a fair bit (probably, if it goes as I've planned, which it doesn't always.)

**Please leave me a review, my lovely, wonderful readers! xx**


	16. That's What They Say

**Author's Note:** Thank you my awesome, amazing, wonderful reviewers! Seriously, I less than three you all so much ^_^ You are the bestest. So, this chapter is really short compared to my usual, but try as I might to figure out how to bring it up to my usual quantity (because posting short chapters makes me feel guilty) this just seemed its natural ending point, as from this scene on, the story will be focusing on war preparations, and be of quite a different tone. So it just wasn't working, and this is what I ended up with. At any rate, I apologise for the brevity, and hope the content makes up for it :)

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_**13. That's What They Say**_

_Was this to show you_

_I would not fail you_

_Was that the reason you were looking back_

_So I'm trusting in existence_

_I'm thrusting on momentum_

_I don't wanna see these threads of love collide_

_Not ever again_

_[No Ordinary Thing, Opshop]_

Draco's mother flung the door open and stared at Draco – completely ignoring Hermione standing next to him, but he couldn't blame her for that. He shifted uncomfortably under his mother's gaze as she feasted her eyes on him hungrily. She was looking painfully thin, with a hectic red flush to her cheeks and too-bright eyes, her faded blue gown hanging a little loose on her. Draco supposed that having your son missing wasn't great for your appetite, even when you didn't seem to care that much for him. He cleared his throat, trying not to think resentful thoughts and focusing on the relationship they'd been starting to rebuild before the Gringotts' mission, and his and Hermione's capture. His fingertips just barely hooked around Hermione's, discreetly but tightly curled together.

"Hello, mother."

"Draco…" Narcissa breathed his name and then pulled him to her, embracing him like she was afraid he'd vanish into thin air if she didn't hang onto him. She murmured his name over and over, interspersed with _'my darling boy'_ and _'thank Merlin'_, and little strangled sounds as though she was holding back tears. It was extremely fucking awkward. Draco settled for patting his mother on the back gently, letting her cling to him as long as she wanted, rather than struggling to extract himself. Pansy was smirking at him from within the kitchen, standing by the kettle and seemed very satisfied and happy – not just to see Draco, but in general. She looked much better, too; her hair was glossy and cut in a short, neat bob, her eyes and complexion had some life and brightness to them, and she wasn't quite so bloody gaunt.

Draco extricated himself from his mother finally, and flashed Hermione a quick look of nervous reassurance, before crossing the kitchen to give Pansy a hug. He clasped her hands in his and kissed her cheek, grinned lopsidedly down at her, feeling ridiculously happy at seeing her looking so much better than she had been. She had been just a shadow of what she was now. Now, she looked almost like she used to, if a little older and sadder. "Pansy." Draco nodded at her, and her smirk twitched and widened. "Draco. Got yourself a hand, I see," she answered in that sharp, careless manner she had – still a right bitch, obviously – and Draco shrugged and grinned. "Stunning observational skills, Pans. I'm impressed."

"Pansy," Hermione's voice came from just behind Draco, and he stepped aside to see her smiling coolly at Pansy, and Pansy smiling equally-coolly back. And then Hermione smiled properly – that smile that lit up her whole face, and held out a hand to Pansy. "You're looking well."

"Thank you," Pansy said calmly, as if she'd been paid the proper respect rather than having gotten a voluntary compliment, and shook Hermione's hand briefly. Typical Pansy; Merlin, Draco had missed her the past few months. "Please, don't take this the wrong way, Granger, but you're _not_ looking well. You're looking bloody awful, in fact."

Draco glared at Pansy. "Oh, way to be tactful, P–"

Hermione held up a hand, cutting him off, still smiling, although the expression was a little strained now. "It's fine, Draco. I realise I'm hardly looking wonderful right now." She sighed and turned to Draco's mother, and he saw Hermione through Pansy's eyes as she greeted Narcissa politely, if stiffly. Her hair was dragged back into a rough French braid, some bits frizzing free, and her complexion was rather ashen, her eyes dulled and sunk in hollows, her lips dry and chapped. It was the morning sickness, Draco knew. Hermione had thrown up so much lately Draco was surprised she hadn't vomited up her bloody stomach lining, but she couldn't take any nausea-easing potions until Madam Pomfrey had whipped one up, which she'd started on this morning and had said would be ready in two days.

"Would you like some tea?" Narcissa asked them nervously, looking flustered and worried; her eyes constantly darting between Draco and Hermione, and Hermione declined politely, but accepted the offer of a mug of cocoa after Narcissa offered what seemed like a dozen drink options. Draco nodded impatiently yes as well, and his mother quickly had them all ensconced in the big, high-ceilinged drawing room with cups of cocoa and a tray of scones on the low table between the couches. Narcissa sat forward, a nervous twitchiness to her that set Draco even more on edge than he had been. He didn't know how his mother would take the news that he and Hermione were engaged, and having a child. He still didn't quite know how _he_ had taken the news, to be perfectly honest. And he didn't know how he'd feel if his mother was horrified.

Pansy sat composedly on the sofa beside Narcissa, and opposite Hermione, her legs crossed neatly at the ankles, her eyes unreadable and lips curled with a faint polite-but superior smile as she stared at Hermione fixedly. Hermione ignored the Slytherin witch placidly, sipping at her cocoa beside Draco, eyes on her lap. She was tired, and worried – Draco could feel it pouring off her, in the tense, stiff way she sat, and her tight grip on her mug, and the way her thigh pressed into his firmly, like an anchor to steady her. It steadied him too, the warm press of her against him, as his mother talked voraciously. The words poured out of her, although Draco was awkward and stilted, and he found himself hating every minute of it. His mother's concern seemed like unwelcome pity, and her worried questions like macabre curiosity, her whole air gratingly hypocritical, because Draco knew the one question hovering trapped behind her lips.

Neither of them had mentioned it yet, but he knew it was there, and Draco was certain that she would ask, eventually. He felt very cold, the fragile warmth that had been building up between him and his mother before the Gringotts mission battered by her manner now. By the question behind her teeth, and her eyes. Draco pitied her a little, because he knew that she didn't want to ask it – he knew from their conversations before the mission that she felt terribly conflicted and guilty about her love for his father. Especially after discovering what he'd done to Pansy, and being around Pansy and seeing the damage he'd dealt to the young witch with her own eyes. And yet, Draco thought bitterly, as he parried another unintentionally hurtful, too-personal question about what their capture had been like, Narcissa still loved Lucius. Despite everything.

He supposed he couldn't really blame his mother for that; Draco had hardly wanted to love Hermione, at first. And for a good long while, he'd wanted to stop, convinced it was best for her – for both of them, in the end. But hearts were not convenient, or kind, or somehow purer than anything else. They were brutal and hurtful and primal, just like love itself was. Love was like a force of nature, unstoppable, and terribly destructive just as often as it was breath-taking. And if some glorious sort of selflessness came out of love, Draco was convinced that was only luck, and not the nature of love itself. He was a cynic, even now. He had Hermione to provide optimism for him, so he could revel with grim contentment in his realism. His mother's words rolled over Draco, and he handled them automatically, tuning in and out.

"When they told me what had happened…Merlin, I couldn't believe it at first. I didn't want to. I was so afraid…" She was pale, and he knew her remembered distress was genuine.

"The Order didn't tell us _anything_, Pansy and I –" A fond look at the younger witch, before she continued, "– But then I suppose there wasn't anything to tell, to be fair. But I was so frightened for you. For what they'd…do to you."

If only she knew, what exactly they'd done. He didn't think she'd even thought that could be a possiblity. But Draco would never, ever tell her that. Never tell her about Rostan and the others. He'd rather die first.

"…I was absolutely sick with worry, my darling, my boy. I – I kept thinking about…all the things I'd done wrong. All the ways I'd let you down…so many times…I should have protected you…" A faint blush rose in Narcissa's cheeks as she admitted that in front of the others, and Hermione nibbled intently at her scone, trying to politely ignore the exchange. "…I thought about what a failure I'd been, as a mother. And to think that you were probably _dead_ and there was no way I could try to make up for what I'd done…that it was over, and I'd never get another chance." Tears shone in his mother's eyes, real, raw emotion, big and blue and hungrily desperate on Draco, and he felt a pang of sympathy for her that overpowered the distance he'd tried to cultivate, the irritation at her rushed, garble outpouring of emotion.

"Well, I'm…not dead," was all he could think of to say, in a dry, brittle sort of voice that papered over the cracks in his composure. His mother hitched in a delicate breath and began to cry, very quietly, and from the corner of his eye, Draco could see Hermione looking rather panicked at his mother's sudden breakdown. He didn't know what the hell to do, his mother was trying to hide her tears, and Hermione looked as though she'd rather be anywhere but here, in the middle of this awkward moment. Draco wished he'd just told his mother the news by floo-call, or owl. Fucking _hell_. His mother kept crying, very faintly, very composedly, tears seeping silently down her cheeks and eyes red-rimmed.

"Mother. _Mother. _I'm not dead." Fuck, that was a really bloody difficult thing to say, for some reason, and Draco's voice cracked and broke and he swore up a storm in his head. Hermione and Pansy were both rigid with the embarrassment of seeing people that one wasn't that close to caught in a moment of vulnerability. They both stared mutely at each other, and around the room, their uncomfortableness positively radiating off them and Draco gritted his teeth, silently willing his mother to stop up the damn waterworks. Malfoys' were not supposed to show emotion like this. Damn her for abandoning that family motto _now_, of all the fucking inconvenient times. He didn't want to have to deal with her emotional crisis, and Hermione and Pansy shouldn't be stuck witnessing it.

"I'm fine. _Honestly_, mother. I'm fine – you can see that."

She nodded, but her breath was hitching, and her cheeks were getting blotchy and wet with tears – her delicate lace-trimmed handkerchief was saturated, and Draco just wanted to turn and _leave_. He'd come here to tell his mother and Pansy the news about him and Hermione, and their little spawn-of-a-Muggleborn baby, not soothe his mother over the guilt that she damned well deserved. Hermione kept darting glances at him, as if she expected him to do something, and he just gave her a helpless look, because what the fuck could he do? He wasn't going to go over there and give his mother a bloody hug in front of Hermione and Pansy, and baby her like she deserved his sympathy – because honestly she didn't. And that would just be embarrassing, because he didn't _do_ that kind of comforting shit. Hermione gave him another pleading look, and mouthed, _"Do something,"_ and he glared at her and shook his head, pursed his lips and wished to sink into the floor, or cease to exist, all while Narcissa sat there on the couch opposite and wept silently into her hanky.

Pansy, of all people, came to the rescue. Somewhat, at least; more than Draco would have expected from Pansy – but then he was starting to learn that he wasn't the only person capable of change, as Hermione stamped the self-absorption slowly out of him. "Granger." Pansy raised an eyebrow at Hermione. "Would you like to see the gardens?"

"I, ah, yes, thank you, Pansy," Hermione said quickly, with a quick glance at Draco to check it was all right to abandon him to his mother, and he shot her a helpless, weak smile, and nodded slightly. An abject look of relief crossed her face, and she and Pansy retreated quickly, leaving Draco alone in the cavernous drawing room with his weeping mother, caught halfway between wanting to hug her and wanting to slap her for turning his – and Hermione's – capture and torture into something that was all about Narcissa Malfoy, and how upsetting it had been for _her_.

"Stop crying, mother," Draco said sharply at last, losing all patience, and refusing to go over there and hug her, no matter how much he itched to do so. He loved her. He loved her and it was brutal and hurtful and primal. He loved her because she was his _mother_ and she loved him, and there she was, crying – because of the guilt that she had brought upon herself, but still. Draco hated seeing his mother cry. "For Merlin's sake, mother. You're embarrassing yourself," he snapped, appealing to her sense of propriety, feeling stifled and locked up under the mask that hid what he really wanted to say, and do. Draco wasn't a Malfoy anymore; no, he really bloody wasn't. Once upon a time, he would never have felt so tangled up between wanting to shake his mother and soothe her, wanting to show his true feelings.

Draco was beginning to realise that it wasn't him corrupting Hermione; it was, if anything, the other way around entirely.

His mother gave him a startled look, sniffled daintily into her handkerchief, and brought herself together with a visible effort, pulling her rent seams tight almost visibly, drawing herself in and up. Her entire composure altered and smoothed, until she looked like the Narcissa Malfoy that Draco was most accustomed to; cold and sweet and beautiful, with that worried but distant mother-love in her eyes. He didn't know what to make of her, anymore. She loved him, and he loved her – more than he wanted to – and yet she wasn't what she had once been to him, anymore. Not after what she'd let happen to him. Not after her unflagging loyalty to his perfectly monstrous father.

Anger snapped up in Draco, too sudden to be stifled, and his silver hand clenched into a fist on his lap as he eyed his mother, his heart stuttering and then breaking into a ragged race. "Don't cry when I know what you're thinking. What you've been thinking this whole time." The words broke out of him, and he wished he could snatch them back as soon as he'd let them go, but it was too late, and his mother flinched and stared at him, wounded. She didn't deny it though. She prevaricated, and Draco could feel the blood starting to thump and thud heavy in his veins. "Mother."

"I chose you, Draco," she avoided, soft blue eyes looking panicky and trapped, and Draco swiped a hand tiredly over his face, sank back into the couch and sighed. He hadn't come here to argue. "Just ask, mother. I won't hate you for asking; I already know that you want to."

"No. No. I made my decision, and I chose you. _You_, Draco, not Lucius. It…that part of my life…is over, now."

"All right then, mother," Draco said a little stiffly, and leaned forward, scooped up his mug of cocoa, and sat back with it, playing at acting normal. "I wonder when Pansy and Hermione will think it safe to come back," he mused aloud, a little cuttingly, but his mother was gazing very far away, and his words drifted over her without touching her. Draco swallowed hard, watching the pain in his mother's eyes and wishing like hell it didn't upset him so much, digging under his skin and worming around. "I'm sorry," he said, like a little boy, getting up and round the low table between the couches and sitting on the edge of hers, sideways, his knees a hand's-breadth from her, leaning forward a little, earnestly. "I'm sorry that you –"

She smiled, very sadly. "No, don't be sorry, Draco. I just…I remember – what it was like, before. What _he_ was like. And I wish…I wish that we were a happy family. All together. But we can't be, can we? Not ever again. And you're grown up –" Her pale hand reached out and patted Draco's jaw lightly, her face so tender that it made a lump clog in his throat and his eyes sting. "You're going to go off and live your own life with that – that Granger girl, most likely, and I'm…left with nothing. I know, it's terribly selfish, but I am rather selfish, Draco. I always have been." Her smile widened but was no less sad. "Just like you. You'll be absorbed in your own life, and you won't want – want anything to do with me, anymore. Anything…" There wasn't any malice in her voice, but nonetheless Draco flinched back from what she said. He wasn't _that_ selfish, not anymore. Only moderately – and Draco thought a healthy amount of selfishness was a good thing.

"He came back for me." Hermione's voice rang quietly but clearly through the room, and Draco glanced up startled, and saw her standing there in a dusty ray of weak sunlight by the doorway. A pale, tired angel with ashen skin and bruises beneath her eyes, and he wished again that they'd never come today. That he'd sent Truffle or Johns with a note telling his mother about their engagement and Hermione's pregnancy. She was too sick, still – they should have at least waited until Madam Pomfrey had made up the morning sickness potion. But he'd wanted to tell his mother in person, to try to restore what they'd lost, to show his mother he still cared, and that things could be at least _similar_ to what they had been. And he'd wanted to do it before anything else could happen. Fucking idiot. He should have been the coward he'd always been accused of being.

Of course, Hermione had wanted him to tell his mother too, so he could always partially blame this horrible, awkward, emotional disaster on her.

"The _idiot_ came back for me," Hermione went on firmly, lifting her chin and smiling faintly at him. "At Gringotts, he – he, even though he knew that he couldn't save me, could only be captured or killed with me, he came back. It was…my fault that they captured him as well as me. He could have just gone, left me behind and saved himself like everyone else did, but he didn't. And then when we were captured…" Hermione licked her lips and her hands knotted in front of her – she was staring not at Narcissa, but directly into Draco's eyes as she spoke, and Merlin it was raw between them, and the memories hurt and throbbed, and shit he loved her so much at this moment. Seeing the wonder and gratitude on her face, and feeling a strange sort of pride warm him through at her expression. For once, he felt like he deserved her love, and it was a nice feeling. A very nice feeling.

"When we were captured, Draco did his best to get them to hurt him, instead of me. To – to protect me. When we were first taken, he was the one who kept me going, who kept me from breaking. He was so strong, and – and not selfish at all. Not even the tiniest bit. He – we…" Hermione's voice wavered and she blinked rapidly and then cleared her throat, walking across the room, gaze turning to Draco's mother. "If you lose him it won't be because he's selfish or grown up, Mrs Malfoy. It will be because you drive him away by obsessing over the man who cut off Draco's hand, and r-r-hurt Pansy, and tried and failed to do the same to me and to take Draco's other hand too. Personally, I don't understand how on _earth_ you can have any feelings left for L-Lucius, after what he's done, but I can tell _you_, I'm not having my child spend time around someone who's pining –"

"_Child?_" Narcissa asked, white to the lips and Hermione slammed her mouth shut and gave Draco a sudden terrified, pleading stare, her hands resting on the back of the sofa opposite Draco and his mother. She wanted him to explain? Merlin _damnit_. Pansy stood in the doorway behind Hermione, looking not half as shocked as Narcissa – and faintly amused, Draco noted – and Draco's eyes flickered from her to Hermione leaning on the back of the sofa and then to his mother, as he dragged in a deep breath and steeled himself. This was not quite how he had anticipated informing them. He'd planned on something little more measured and calm, not…this moment. This fragile, explosive tension in the air. Draco said it bluntly, outright. "Hermione's pregnant. You're going to have a grandchild, mother. And we're going to be married after the war, if all goes as we hope it will."

His mother stared at him, her eyes wide, looking like a china doll in her shock, and he waited for her reaction, realising that in the end, she didn't care how she reacted. He'd like it if she accepted the reality of the situation, but if she didn't…well, Draco still had Hermione, and everyone else. Which was an odd thought. His eyes combed over his mother's face, looking for any kind of reaction, good or bad. But for a long moment, she was frozen. It was Pansy who broke the silence, her mouth tipping up into a wry kind of smile.

"Congratulations, Draco, Granger," Pansy said simply, without any great amount of feeling, but there was fondness in her eyes as she smiled at Draco. And a hint of…regret? Draco wondered if she wished the pregnancy she'd aborted had been a wanted one, one that hadn't come about through rape and torture. He had never thought Pansy would make a good mother, but there was the faintest trace of wistfulness in her face as she smiled at Draco, and he wondered if she was thinking of when _they_ had been together, all but an assured match for marriage. When they had both assumed that one day they would be husband and wife, most likely, and if not in love, friends, and parents to the children they were expected to have.

"Thank you," Hermione said, not sounding taken aback by Pansy's politeness – he wondered what they'd talked about in the garden – and then he turned his face back to his mother, a tension thrumming in his bones as he waited. "Well?" he asked her after a moment, impatience itching under the surface, and Narcissa blinked those soft blue eyes and focused on him.

"Are you happy?" she asked quietly, like she had asked him when she had found out he and Hermione were together, and Draco nodded once.

"Yes, mother. I – wouldn't want anything else but this." It was a simple statement of fact, but from the corner of his eye Draco saw Hermione's fingers clutch white-knuckled on the back of the sofa, saw her shoulders slump with relief. He nodded again, eyes meeting Hermione's. "I'm as happy as I can be, mother," he said, because he wouldn't lie, not right now, not to Hermione.

"Then…I'm happy for you, my son. My dear boy. I – I can't pretend to…well, I'm afraid my views are still not exactly liberal, but…Miss Granger is an intelligent girl who obviously loves you a great deal –"

"I do. And please, don't talk about me as if I'm not here, Mrs Malfoy," Hermione interrupted, her chin thrust up and her eyes glinting determination; Draco's Gryffindor, all bravery and nobility, and fuck he loved her.

"I apologise, Miss Granger." His mother inclined her head gracefully, the only sign of her irritation at being interrupted – and by a Muggleborn at the – her fingers twitching around the wet hanky in her curled hand. "As I was saying, you obviously both care about each other a great deal, and I don't really see the point in…making a fuss over the two of you being together, and having a child together." Narcissa shrugged slightly. "What would my disapproval do, but exactly what you said, Miss Granger? Drive my son away from me. And despite what you may think of me, and my views, and the choices that I have made, I do love him, and I don't want to lose him."

"I know," Hermione said gently, and an understanding seemed to pass between his mother and Hermione, that Draco didn't quite understand, and the two witches smiled at each other.

"Well, then. Congratulations, Miss – Hermione. If I may call you that?" Hermione inclined her head in assent, and his mother continued, "Congratulations Hermione, Draco. Although, I must say, I wish you'd at least marry before the child is born. I'd rather not have a Malfoy child born out of wedlock; half-blood or no, we have standards to uphold."

Draco gave his mother a look. "Mother," he said warningly, thinking about exactly _what_ standards the Malfoy family held to these days, standards which did not exclude torture, rape, or murder. Narcissa seemed to resist the urge to roll her eyes, but she just nodded and stood instead, and held out her arms to her son. Draco swallowed and stood, and hugged her; stiffly at first, still uncomfortable and uneasy, and not sure quite exactly where they all stood, how mended or broken things were.

And then, "You're going to make a wonderful father, my son," his mother whispered in his ear, her voice choked with tears, and his arms tightened around her, hard, and the emotion bubbled up in his chest and clogged his throat, made his eyes swim with tears he sure as hell wasn't going to shed. "Thank you," he said shortly and let her go after a moment, ducking his head so his fringe hid his eyes, and blinking the tears away. And then a warm hand – Hermione's hand – slid into his and locked around his fingers, and he lifted his head and smiled at his mother openly, steadied and bolstered by Hermione. "Thank you," he said again, louder and clearer, and his mother smiled up at him with quivering lips and watery eyes.

"Well. This is all very nice, but boring as hell, for me. And I believe lunch is ready. I'm going to go eat, if anyone would like to join me," Pansy said with that perfect, prissy snark that was her trademark, and the tension fell away from the room, the weight lifted from Draco's shoulders. "_Lovely_, Pansy. I see you're as tactful as ever."

The witch shrugged gracefully and smirked at Draco's retort, eyes bright in her face, and hair silky – not the thin, bedraggled girl she'd been when she'd defected. "Oh, you adore me anyway, darling," she drawled and then raised an eyebrow, smirked wider, and turned on her heel and left for the dining room.

They did as Pansy said, traipsing after the Slytherin witch and settling in to a simple lunch that Pansy and his mother had apparently made themselves. The rest of their visit was surprisingly not too awkward, although they talked mostly about the war, and general affairs, not of Hermione and Draco. But it was still far better than Draco had expected. And Narcissa kissed Hermione on the cheek when they left; cool and distant, but the fact that she'd done it all was all Draco needed to know. His mother approved; his mother was _happy_ for him. And although he didn't _need_ her approval, it made him happy to have it. Because Draco already lost his father; he'd really rather not lose his mother too, however fragile and tentative the bond that remained between them might be.

The unfamiliar Auror, Celia Kippens, who had escorted them to the safehouse, apparated them back to the edge of Hogwarts wards and they hurried well within the bounds in her company, and then were left alone to make their own way into the castle. Hermione smiled up at Draco, catching his hand and halting him in his long, strolling strides and shifting around in front of him, the sun low in the sky behind her, catching her hair and threading glints of copper in it, and shadowing her face from him. He gave her a questioning look, and she slid her arms around his neck and went up on tiptoes; kissed him full on the mouth, and her lips were so soft and warm, and so deliciously greedy on his. Draco lifted his hands to cradle her face, thumbs grazing over her cheekbones, his eyes open, watching as hers fluttered shut, a content little sound issuing from her lips.

Hermione swayed into him, her body pressed full against his, as they broke the kiss and she tucked her face against his chest, breath deep and slow. Draco suddenly couldn't stop thinking about what was happening inside her still-flat abdomen; a thrill of anticipation and terror crawled down his spine, and he slid his arms around her. They were having a baby in the middle of a Merlin-damned war. They were having a baby in the middle of a _war. _There was so, so much that could go wrong. So, so much. And even if they won the war…Draco only hoped that the Order really could get him out of being sentenced to Azkaban, because…he couldn't even finish the thought. Instead Draco tightened his embrace, burying his face in Hermione's hair, and smelt chocolate and cinnamon, felt her breath hot on his chest, heard her whisper a muffled _'I love you,' _and a warm feeling blossomed in his chest, obliterating the fear.

**Author's Note: **Not much Dramione action at all this chapter – sorry guys :( But I hope you liked how things have resolved with Narcissa, and enjoyed the chapter. **Please review!**

Next chapter… We're getting close to the final battle, people! There will likely be lots of preparations, what with fortifying Hogwarts, characters tying up loose threads in anticipation of the battle, Harry talking about the memories Snape left him, Teddy + Draco, and so on. (But it's not the end of the story yet! Not even close.)

Updates:

Expect the next update of _**TJWF**_ in around a week (hopefully sooner.)

"_**Of Onions & Icebergs"**_ – I'm currently two-thirds finished the next chapter of OOAI, _'Shearing Away, or, Covered in Dirt'_ and anticipate it will be finished within 24hours.

"_**What He Requires"**_ – I have not yet begun _Part Two_, but do not anticipate it will take longer than three or four days.

Further progress updates and other things related to my Dramione fics can be found on Facebook, at /theriskrewardratio


	17. Frost and Fire

**Author's Not: **Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who has reviewed! And also everyone who has favourited, and followed. You're all wonderful! I'm so sorry this update has taken so long. Please excuse any typos – my proofread was rather speedy. I hope you enjoy it :)

**# # # # # #**

_**14. Frost and Fire**_

_I can watch the sunlight melt the snow_

_I can feel a new light start to grow_

_But I still got miles to go before I sleep_

_Still got miles to go before all is revealed_

_Still got miles to go before I sleep_

_Still listening to the chainless wind sing_

_[Miles to Go, Stateless]_

**# # # # # #**

Hermione sighed with contentment and smiled into the kiss, swaying into Draco, her fingers curling into his hair, her lips melding and moving against his. He was warm and gentle and hungry, and he smelt like happiness and home; the autumn sun was warm on her back, his hands were gentle, cupping her face. It was a small moment of perfection, standing there all alone, wrapped together, secure in the safety of Hogwarts' grounds and thinking of nothing but the feel of each other. She feel her blood start to heat and rise, felt the curls of lust start to swell in her, and drew away before she got too carried away. Now was not the time, unfortunately. It might be safe on the grounds, but Hermione would still prefer not to linger out in the open – and besides, she had an announcement to make to the Order.

Breathless, Hermione gazed up at Draco with a smile, brushing a fall of hair out of his eyes, and drinking in the sight of him in the sun, his features peaceful, serene. Today had gone better than she had thought it would, and it obviously meant the world to Draco that his mother had reacted so positively – she could see the tension had drained out of him, and a faint smile curved his mouth as he ran his fingers through her hair, fingers snagging on little tangles and gently tugging them free. She sighed and her shoulders slump, she leaned into him tiredly. It had still been a horribly stressful afternoon for Hermione despite how well it had gone, and it was a relief to be back here, safe at Hogwarts. Now all she wanted to do was head up to the castle, announce the pregnancy to everyone, and go and have a nice little lie-down in Draco's old room.

"Well, that went better than I thought it would," Hermione said lightly as they turned and began to stroll up towards the castle, side by side, Draco matching his pace to hers. He glanced down at her. "It did. At least in regards to us, and the baby. I don't know if my mother will ever let go of my father, the way I would like her to, but…" He sighed heavily, eyes narrowed against the light. "I can live with that. I suppose I don't really have a choice, unless I want to cut her off …" He continued like he was admitting a weakness, "And I'd really rather not do that. I…I do love her, for all her selfish bloody flaws." He swiped a hand over his face tiredly, resigned and weary, and in the light he looked older. Lines carved into his face, hair drifting over his eyes in the breeze, lips shaped with a thoughtful twist, and for a moment Hermione could truly picture him being someone's father. Her baby's father. This war had aged them all terribly – the other day, Ginny had found a silver hair in Harry's messy locks. They all looked older than their years, and most of the time, had to act it too.

Hermione turned her eyes to the ground as they walked along, one hand absently travelling to her abdomen, and flattening gently there. "She's grieving for him, isn't she? That's all it is, Draco. She misses him, she wants him back – but she knows she can't, because the Lucius she knew is gone. It must be very hard for her, really." Hermione tried her hardest to be fair to Narcissa, and was rewarded by a wan smile from Draco, his silver fingers curling through the fingers of the hand that wasn't cradling her non-existent belly.

"That's a very charitable perspective, Hermione." His voice was self-protectively dry and amused.

"I think it's the truth. Her life has been torn apart too, except she doesn't have anyone to lean on, and unlike us, who were wronged, she has _done_ wrong – or allowed it to happen, at least. And she just wants things to be the way they were, and she can't have it." Hermione shook her head, only now realising how genuinely sad Narcissa's position was. The woman didn't have anyone, really – at least Hermione had Draco, Harry, Ron and all the others who loved her and cared about her. Narcissa didn't have anyone like that.

"No, she can't," Draco said neutrally but firmly, and Hermione sensed he was done talking about it for now, and fell silent, her mind wandering as they wended their way toward the castle. She broke the quiet only moments later. "Do you think your mum…is really okay with us?" she asked him a little nervously. It wouldn't devastate Hermione if Narcissa Malfoy politely disapproved of her forever, but it would be better for everyone if they genuinely got on all right. Draco shot Hermione an amused glance, "Do you care what my mother thinks?"

"A little. I'd rather she liked me and approved of me than silently disliked me. She reacted far better than I thought she would, but I'm still not sure how much of it was genuine, and how much of it was biting her tongue so as not to drive you away, like she said."

"She called you an intelligent girl, and congratulated us. I'd say she's coping with it. Not over-joyed, certainly, but I don't think she really dislikes you." Draco squeezed her fingers and gave her a fond look. "And as she gets to know you, she'll get over any of the lingering disapproval that comes from her blood prejudice. How could she not?"

"Speaking of blood prejudice," Hermione said quickly, little threads of worry weaving through her. "What about the baby? Being a half-blood, I mean? Will she…" Will she secretly believe the baby is lesser? Will she think our child isn't good enough? Will she be disappointed that her grandchild isn't pure-blooded? Hermione didn't speak her worries aloud, but she didn't have to – Draco knew what she meant. He bit his lip and shrugged slightly as they continued their meandering way up the path to the castle. "I don't think that will be a problem. Mother loves children – I don't believe she really cares whether her grandchild is pure-blooded or not, as long as I provide her with at least one." He grinned, a careless, genuine expression Hermione was ridiculously happy to see. "She's going to spoil the baby dreadfully."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Is _that_ why you were such a horrid little brat? Your mother spoilt you?"

"Hah. Maybe. Partly, anyway. Even if my parents weren't bigots I probably would still have been an arrogant little arsehole," Draco allowed, grinning to himself. "But grandparents are there to spoil children, aren't they? And it'll make mother happy to have someone to dote on. Especially if…" His face clouded for a moment, and then the smile came back, but this time it seemed a little forced. Hermione was relatively sure she knew what he'd stopped himself from saying, but she refused to let herself think about it either. Draco cleared his throat and went on, "I think mother got very lonely once I went off to Hogwarts, and she's been lonely ever since. She'll be ecstatic once the baby's born."

Hermione nodded a little absently, her mind drifting off, down to Australia. "I wish I could tell my parents," she said quietly, thinking of how furious and simultaneously excited her mum and dad would be. Draco stiffened, an awkward sympathy radiating off him – they didn't talk much about her parents – they didn't talk at all about her parents to be honest. Most of the time Hermione tried not to think about them, and when she did, she still didn't much see the point in talking about them. Bemoaning their absence wouldn't bring them back. But now, she just felt like talking, and the words spilt out as she shot Draco a weak smile.

"I can imagine exactly how they'd react. They'd be gobsmacked that I've taken up with the nasty boy who used to torment me, for one," she said with affection, nudging Draco gently in the side with an elbow. She laced their fingers tighter together as they stepped onto the long bridge, shoes quiet on the wood. Draco gulped and gave Hermione a sideways glance. "You told them about that? About me?"

"Of course I did! My father was so angry – he wanted to go to Hogwarts and beard Dumbledore in his den – march up to the headmaster's office and give him what-for, was how I believe he phrased it. He wanted to complain until 'that mad old bugger' did something to stop the 'bigotry and bullying'."

"He didn't want to do the Muggle equivalent of hexing me for being awful to his daughter? Find me and give me a good thrashing? Or whatever it is Muggles do," Draco ventured with tentative curiosity, and Hermione shook her head, picturing her dad in her mind. "No – my dad is very mild-mannered, very civilised and polite. He'd never haul off and punch anyone; that would be too barbaric for him. My mum, on the other hand, would have been delighted to give you a good thrashing. She was absolutely gleeful when I hit you; she promised to take me out for ice-cream to celebrate it, in the hols. She's got a bit of a temper, my mum." Hermione grinned. "Dad always called – _calls_ – her feisty. But _never _in her hearing; that might be too dangerous, as he said."

"Well, it's obvious who _you_ take after then."

Hermione shrugged, rather enjoying chatting about her parents; it had been so long since she'd thought of them in such vivid detail, and it was nice to share a little about them with Draco, seeing as he couldn't actually meet them. "Oh, I'm a bit like dad. And I inherited his horrible hair. Mum's got lovely, soft, straight hair, and half the time dad looks like a mad scientist. It makes his patients very nervy, when he asks them to sit down in the chair, with his hair all wild like that."

"Mad scientist…? Chair…?" Draco gave Hermione a confused look and she waved him off. "Oh, just Muggle things. Dad and mum fix people's teeth, and to do so, their patients have to sit in a special chair that lets them look easily into their patients' mouths, and do the work. And mad scientist is…possibly a bit too involved to explain properly right now." She gave a jaw-cracking yawn. "And I can't be bothered."

There was a brief silence as they traversed the last half of the long bridge, approaching the entrance courtyard hand in hand, Draco's fingers folded warm and firm around Hermione's. She wondered how everyone would take the news that she was pregnant. Harry and Ron had taken it pretty well, but then Harry had been rather distracted at the time, and she hadn't really given them time for it to sink in. It would be nice to be able to chat with Angelina about pregnancy woes and have someone to share the whole experience with, who knew what Hermione was going through. And Mrs Weasley would probably be over-joyed – and pushing for a wedding before the baby came. Hermione didn't really care if they got married before the baby came or not – although she didn't really like the idea of having to wait at least six months to marry.

"I don't even know your parents' names," Draco said out of nowhere, and Hermione was surprised Draco would care to know – he'd never shown any interest in the Muggle part of her life. But then most boys didn't seem to care about their girlfriend's parents and other relations.

"Richard and Tommy," she told him, smiling as his eyebrow rose. "Richard is dad, and Tommy is mum. Her name is actually Thomasina, but she's always hated that with a passion."

"And Tommy is meant to be better?" Draco asked dubiously, and Hermione snorted. "Like you can talk. Your whole family has odd names."

"The Malfoy tradition of naming children after constellations and other celestial objects is an old and time-honoured one," Draco said with a self-deprecating tilt to his voice. "And compared to some of our other traditions, it's hardly noteworthy as odd." He grimaced, and his features tautened, and Hermione took a sharp breath and changed the subject, back to her parents – a clumsy attempt, but Draco seemed to appreciate it. "Anyway, I suspect that if – _when_ you do eventually meet my parents, it might be wiser to use Mr and Mrs Granger for a while. And never, ever call my father Dick; he despises it."

"They're not exactly to going to approve of me, are they?" Draco asked as he strolled along, taking shorter strides so that she could keep pace with him.

"No. Not at first. They've only ever heard negative things about you, and the fact that you've impregnated their nineteen year old daughter will hardly endear you to them. They won't be horrid, though, maybe just a bit stand-offish at first." She sighed. "I hope the war is over before the baby comes." It was frightening enough to contemplate being a parent – let alone being a parent during a brutal war – and Hermione wanted her mum to be there and not miss out on seeing her first grandchild as a newborn. Her mum would be so heartbroken if she did, and Hermione wanted her mother's love and support, too. Mrs Weasley would be wonderful, but it wasn't the same as having your own mum there.

"Merlin, so do I. But if Potter calls Voldemort out, and with all the horcruxes but Nagini gone, we have a good chance of ending it in one battle." Draco seemed cautiously optimistic, his thumb stroking over the back of Hermione's hand as they entered the entrance courtyard.

"It seems unreal, that it could be over so soon. It feels like we've been fighting forever. I can't imagine life without all this," Hermione said softly. Draco slid his silver hand from Hermione's grip as they approached the steps to the great entry doors, flexing his fingers and staring at them thoughtfully. "Don't worry," Draco said wryly as he dropped his hand to his side, his gaze still on it. "I doubt it will be over that easily or quickly, Hermione. Besides, even if Voldemort dies, there will be plenty of surviving followers to capture, the Ministry will be in chaos, structures, the economy, and people, will all need care and restoration, and…we'll still have all the scars."

He looked up from his calm study of his false hand, pausing on the stairs and meeting Hermione's eyes – she two steps above him, looking down at him. Her breath caught at the sadness in Draco's narrowed grey eyes.

"We'll be dealing with the fallout for years," he said, with a certain bleak resignation.

"Together?" she asked him quietly, holding out her hand, and he twisted his mouth into a small smile. "That's the plan," he said lightly, as he took her hand and she led him through Hogwarts' open doors.

**# # # # # #**

"This could almost be old times," Harry said contemplatively as he starred into the crackling fire, slouched down on a couch in the Gryffindor common room beside Hermione. The trio were alone in the cosy room at the moment, just Hermione, Harry, and Ron, and she was lulled into nostalgia by the familiar leaping flames and the presence of her two best friends. Ron broke the dreamy mood by snorting. "Yeah, except that I'm married, Hermione's knocked up, and you're…doing my bloody sister."

"Ew!"

"God, Ron!" Harry blushed furiously and Hermione made a disgusted face, wrinkling up her nose. She didn't need to picture Harry 'doing' Ginny. Ron smirked happily at the reaction he'd gotten, and sighed. "But yeah, other than that, it's totally like old times."

"Right down to the risk of bodily harm or death," Hermione added dryly, the thought of the inevitable upcoming confrontations putting a lump in her throat and making her already nauseated stomach churn.

"At least we can't be expelled," Harry said brightly with a side-long look at Hermione, and she turned an indignant glare on him, only to be disarmed by the cheeky spark in his green eyes. She subsided with a dismissive flap of her hand and smiled at the memory he'd resurrected. She relaxed back into the couch between her two best friends. "That's very true, Harry. At least we can't be expelled."

Harry chuckled softly and the three of them sat and stared into the leaping tongues of flame in companionable silence for a while, the memories washing over them – rising in the flame they gazed into, like faint spectres.

"So, Harry, mate," Ron began ultra-casually, glancing across Hermione to Harry. "When're you going to tell us what you and Snape chatted about before he had to bugger off?"

Harry stiffened immediately – Hermione felt it, squashed together as they were on the couch.

"Was he still a horrible git to you, or –"

"Yes. He was definitely still a giant git," Harry said tightly. "We didn't really have any time to talk. He basically just insulted me several times, told me that everything I needed to know was in his memories – which he planned to come back to collect eventually – and told me not to show them to anyone else." Harry glowered resentfully. "He didn't mention 'at pain of death' directly, but it was kind of implied."

"Oh come on, how will he know if you show us his greasy memories?" Ron prodded, and Hermione's lips flattened with disapproval before she answered him. "Legilimency, Ronald. Obviously."

"Oh. True." Ron furrowed his brow with disappointment and thought, and Hermione – with fond exasperation – could nearly see the cogs turning in his head. For all that Ron had matured enormously his attitude toward Snape was the same as it had always been – highly negative. Truthfully it was a little irritating, considering Snape had saved Hermione; but it also reminded her of long evenings in the common room, studying by the fire while Harry and Ron skived off and complained about Snape. It made her smile to think of those times again, and stoked welcome warmth in her chest.

"Was there anything embarrassing about the greasy old bastard in his memories?" Ron probed curiously, and Harry shifted uncomfortably, looking away. "Yeah, there was, I guess, but Ron…"

"It's not ruddy fair. All those memories sitting there, and I'm not even allowed to have one…little…peek," Ron whined, and Hermione and Harry shared a look that spoke volumes.

"Ron, you better not be thinking about trying to take a look, mate."

"Snape may be a nasty git, Ronald, but he saved my life and more besides," Hermione added sternly, and Ron huffed a defeated sigh. "Fine. I won't even peek. Bloody fun spoilers you two are." He scowled half-heartedly at Hermione and Harry, and then brightened when his eyes fell on Hermione's hands, laced absently over her still-flat abdomen.

"Mum's already knitting for that little one," he said with a grin and a jerk of his chin at Hermione's stomach. "She was that bloody excited you'd have thought it was her own grandchild in there."

Hermione beamed – the Weasleys' really were like a surrogate family, with Molly Weasley taking the role of Hermione's matronly aunt, just as she was surrogate mum to Harry. "She seemed a little disapproving that we wouldn't necessarily be getting married before the baby's due, though," Hermione said cautiously. The wizarding world was big on legitimacy, and Mrs Weasley had rather pointedly asked how soon the wedding would be, and been obviously disappointed in Hermione and Draco when she'd learnt it would be no sooner, despite the baby.

"Oh, that's just mum." Ron waved it off. "She's just a bit old-fashioned, that's all. She's still over the bloody moon, you know. She spent half the evening debating what colour to knit in, according to poor old Tonks who got stuck listening to it."

Hermione rubbed a hand over her flat belly fondly. "That's very sweet of your mum." She pictured a tiny newborn in a trademark chunky-knit Weasley jersey – maybe in green and crimson stripes, a little initial on the front. She and Draco hadn't even begun thinking about baby names yet, although Hermione had a few ideas since her talk with Draco earlier on their way up to the castle from his mother's. She quite liked Cassiopeia for a girl – Cassie for short, perhaps. She wasn't sure how the name had come to her, but somehow it seemed vaguely familiar.

"So…who's going to be godfather?" Ron was asking, waggling his eyebrows and nudging Hermione vigorously. She set aside thoughts of baby names and laughed.

"Harry," she said without pause, smirking at Ron's suddenly offended and forlorn face. "If you're willing to be, that is, Harry."

"Oi, why not me?"

"Ronald, I am not about to entrust my child to you. Honestly. Besides, you've got plenty of opportunities to be a godparent; far more than Harry. There's Fred, George, and Angelina's baby, and Bill and Fleur eventually, and if things turn out the way I think they will, maybe even Charlie and Madeleine's. _And_ Harry and Ginny's, one day."

"Good lord, Hermione, you think _I'll_ entrust any future children to Ron if you won't, 'Mione?" Harry said with a strained chuckle, and Ron harrumphed at their teasing.

"You two are just bloody mean. I'm a married man now – responsible and all."

"I'm only kidding mate," Harry said placating a sulky Ron. "I've always planned that –" He paused and Hermione glanced at him curiously, saw his eyes with the orange sheen of the fire reflected in them, and that tight set to his jaw, and felt concern worry over her. "That any kids I have would have you and Hermione as godparents; if I ever have any kids. If anything were to happen, I reckon between the two of you, you couldn't screw them up _too_ badly."

"Oh, thanks, Harry," Hermione snarked in response to Harry's clear teasing, rolling her eyes and propping her feet up on the low table in front of the couch with a sigh.

"How d'you think I feel, huh?" Ron complained to Hermione. "You won't even let me have a go at being godfather."

"You can have the honours with our second child, then," Hermione said, affectionately bumping her shoulder against Ron's.

"Already planning another one, 'Mione? You haven't even finished cooking this one yet."

"Eventually." Hermione smiled to herself, hand stroking over her abdomen as she imagined a future with two or three small children, in a world that finally knew some peace. Playing with their surrogate cousins, going off to Hogwarts on the train….Christmases and birthdays and feasts in the Great Hall…that was the future she was fighting for now. "I didn't mind being an only child growing up, but I'd like my children to have siblings. It's good for them – teaches them to share, and compromise, and that they're not the centre of the universe."

"Mm," Harry said lazily and distractedly. "And being half Malfoy, they'll need extra care to make sure they don't turn out to be arrogant little toe rags. No offence, Hermione."

"Harry! My children will not be arrogant little toe rags!" She thumped him on the arm and they grinned at each other. "Good point though," she added laughingly.

"And this one will be in the same year as the devil-child Fred and George's offspring will end up being. And they'll probably be great friends, too. Merlin, imagine the trouble they'll get up to together," Harry teased lightly, smiling and staring into the fire, and Hermione groaned. "Let's get through the war before we start worrying about future battlegrounds."

"Yeah… This is _nothing _like old times," Ron commented. "We're sitting around talking about _babies_ and the _future_. If it was old times, we'd be trying to figure out a way to –"

"Risk expulsion," Hermione finished with wry disapproval, remembering how hopeless the boys had been back then.

Well, we're still trying to defeat Voldemort. That hasn't changed." Harry sounded suddenly weary, and he pushed his fingers under his glasses and rubbed tiredly at his eyes, looking rather dreadful, even by the warming glow of the fire. "Ugh, don't remind me," Ron complained, and then rather adroitly turned the subject back to the days when they'd haunted the castle under the Cloak, and gotten into all types of mischief. Hermione found she was swept up in Ron's reminiscing, forgetting the war and her usually omnipresent worry; laughing and groaning with the two boys over their exploits together, viewed now through the rose-tinted glass of nostalgia. It was nice; just the three of the in front of the common room fireplace, and for a while it really _was _like revisiting old times.

**# # # # # #**

Hermione slid between the sheets of Draco's old school bed with a sigh of relief, melting back into the pillows and watching Draco strip with a languorous sort of interest. He'd charmed that blank piece of wall framed with curtains into a window scene – providing the below-ground room with a view of a night sky. The glow of a near-full moon streamed in from that faux window, lighting Draco softly. He looked best by the moonlight; like he belonged in it, belonged _to _it, Hermione thought idly as she nestled down into the bed. His hair was gleaming white and his pale skin cast in silver, eyes dark charcoal and lean muscles shifting and rippling beneath his smooth skin, silver hand shining.

Hermione drank him in, still savouring the sight of him as though it were the first time she'd ever seen him. Or perhaps, to be brutally accurate, because Hermione was acutely aware each time could be the last. There was no chance for them to grow accustomed to each other to the point of boredom, or take each other for granted – not with the possibility of death hanging over them the way it did, heavy and constant. Not with the torture and separation that marked their recent past. Hermione had come to realise, with acute clarity, that every moment was immeasurably precious. Although she suspected the pregnancy hormones were making her a bit melancholic too.

Draco was down to his boxers now, and arched an eyebrow at her questioningly. Feeling a little guilty, Hermione shook her head minutely – she wanted to, but she was also exhausted and felt nauseous – and he nodded and left his boxers on, crawling into bed and opening his arms to her.

"Everyone seemed so happy for us, earlier. I'm relieved. I was sure some people would disapprove of us having a baby," Hermione said as she wriggled into Draco's arms, laying her head on his chest and listening to his thud steadily. He snorted. "Mrs Weasley seemed less than approving about our unmarried state. She kept glaring at me all through dinner, as though it was my fault."

"Ron says she's already planning jerseys for the baby. And besides, it _is_ your fault. I'd marry you right now, if you'd agree to it," Hermione said, a little trickle of indignation rising up in her. Draco made an apologetic sort of sound that echoed in the ear Hermione had pressed against his chest. "I know, I know. It _is _my fault then, but not for the reasons that Mrs Weasley was thinking of. I just –"

"Let's not. Please." She hated going over and over the reasons Draco wouldn't marry her yet. Hermione didn't see his point – _couldn't_. Especially not now, when she was carrying his bloody child, and nothing was going to change _that_. No matter what happened after the war, Hermione was still going to be tarred with the stigma of having a Malfoy child, the spawn of a Death Eater, so really, he may as well just marry her. But he didn't see it that way. She clamped her jaw tightly shut and held back the tears that pregnancy seemed to be making well up easier.

"Sorry," he apologised, his hand stroking over her bare shoulder absently. There was a long silence, both of them glad to avoid an argument, exhausted as they were – and in Hermione's sake, feeling sick still. She hoped Madam Pomfrey would have the anti-nausea potion ready first thing tomorrow, because the morning sickness was always worse in, well, the morning. Not only that, but it was getting steadily worse as the days ticked by, and if she didn't get relief from it soon, she would end up a ball of misery curled up in front of the toilet all day.

"I think I'll go see my mother again tomorrow," Draco said softly, fingers dancing a lazy trail from her shoulder, down her naked back.

"Do you want me to come?"

"Actually, I think it would be best if you…didn't." He sounded uncomfortable but decided. "I want to talk to her alone about some things. I appreciate what you said to her today, but some things…well, it's a Malfoy matter." It seemed as though Draco expected her to go spare over his exclusion of her, and Hermione couldn't deny a little pang of rejection. But that was irrational and she knew it – of course he wanted to discuss things in more detail alone. Hermione would want to be able to do the same thing with her parents.

"Of course," she answered brightly, patting his concave stomach lightly. "It'll give me a chance to catch up with everyone anyway. I heard Hagrid's getting back tomorrow; I'll go down with Harry and Ron and have a cup of tea with him." She lifted her head and shot Draco a lopsided grin. "I doubt you'll mind missing out on that."

He grimaced. "No. I won't mind in the least. Bloody half-giant oaf, with that bloody –"

"Draco…" she warned him idly, sprawling back down onto him and draping her leg over his two. "He's my friend. I don't expect you to like Hagrid, but please don't speak ill of him."

Draco grumbled something unintelligible under his breath in response – Hermione caught something about the Forbidden Forest and Buckbeak, and an unpleasant word or two. She very tolerantly ignored his mutterings. "It's been so long since I've seen him, and I _have_ missed him. Oh, he'll be overjoyed to hear about the baby – Hagrid loves babies."

"He'd probably prefer it if it was venomous and had scales," Draco muttered, and kissed the top of Hermione's head to soften his words. His hand crept around to cup her breast, teasing pleasantly, but Hermione, quite frankly, was still nauseated and bone weary, and not in the mood. She made a little noise of protest and Draco's hand froze. "Still feeling sick?" he asked with a hint of resignation, and Hermione slapped his stomach hard, swatting the breath out of him.

"Yes I bloody well am, so don't even –"

"I won't," he said quickly, his hand wisely retreating to her shoulder, a bit of a laugh to his voice. "Don't worry, I wouldn't _dream_ of risking it."

"_Good_." Hermione scowled to herself, but clung tighter to Draco – she was feeling like a walking contradiction in emotions just lately. "I'll feel better once Madam Pomfrey gets those potions finished, but right now I feel utterly wretched."

"I feel like I should apologise. After all, one could say it's my fault," Draco said wryly, as he waved his wand, and the drapes at the faux window fell shut, blocking out all but a sliver of the moonlight.

"You _should_ apologise," Hermione mumbled back, only half-joking. Morning sickness was bad enough – she wasn't relishing all the other changes that would come with pregnancy, nor the eventual pain of its completion. She would have to look into what pain relief the wizarding world had available for labour – Hermione's mother had spent twenty-seven hours in labour with Hermione, and there was no way Hermione was going through something anywhere near that length without pain relief. Perhaps there were numbing charms, she thought drowsily, heavy eyelids slipping shut, Draco's heartbeat a comforting metronome beneath her ear. Or potions. Her mind drifted tiredly away, sliding from one half-formed thought to another, until sleep finally overcame her and dragged her under.

**# # # # # #**

Draco was rudely awakened by a bony elbow digging sharply into his chest, closely followed by a foot that came dangerously near to walloping him in the bollocks. He yelped and sat bolt upright in bed, one hand cupping his balls protectively, eyes flying open just in time to see Hermione scrambling for the door, one hand clamped over her mouth, a hastily pulled on robe flying out behind her. He scrubbed a hand over his face, and managed an eloquent, "Wha?" His chest ached, as did his thigh – he was rather certain that kick would bruise, and badly. "Fuck," he groaned, struggling out of bed bleary-eyed and sore, stumbling out the door in his cotton boxers, heading for the bathroom. He'd best go hold Hermione's hair back for her.

It took several long minutes for Draco to convince Hermione to let him into the bathroom while she was industriously being sick, and another fifteen minutes for her to suppress the retching.

"Is it supposed to be this bad?" he asked her nervously. "Pregnancy, I mean. The morning sickness." He'd never really been around any pregnant women – purebloods, due to the high rate of miscarriage, tended to keep their pregnancies secret until they were starting to show and it couldn't be hidden. Then they would hold an announcement party, before going into seclusion from all but their closest friends and family for the remainder of the pregnancy. Again, because of the high rate of complications pureblood women suffered these days, pregnant women – those of noble houses, at any rate – were expected to rest and not tax themselves. Somehow, Draco didn't see Hermione doing that, and the thought of her _fighting_ while pregnant terrified him.

She finished rinsing out her mouth with Muggle mouthwash and splashing water over her face, and shrugged. Tired brown eyes met his in the mirror over the basin. "It varies a great deal from woman to woman – even from pregnancy to pregnancy. But vomiting my insides up isn't anything to worry about as long as I'm keeping down enough food and fluids, which Madam Pomfrey says I am. It's absolutely horrid, but nothing you need to worry about, Draco."

She sounded faintly amused by his concern, and he frowned. He didn't like seeing Hermione in this state – thin and sick and miserable. It brought back memories that he generally tried to repress. He helped her bring some order to her hair, copying her movements as she wet her hands under the tap and dragged her fingers through the tangles. He snagged his finger on a knot and began to carefully tease the snarl free, half-watching her reflection. Ashy skin and dark shadows beneath dulled eyes, lips pale; she exuded weariness.

"Do you want me to stay with you, today?"

She sighed and leant into his touch, curving her lips into a wan smile. "No. You go – I know how important it is for you to talk to your mother before…the battle, and…well. I'll be fine. If you could go up to the hospital wing and see if Madam Pomfrey has the nausea potion finished though, I'd appreciate it. I feel bloody dreadful. Although I think I'm done throwing up, for now."

"Of course." Draco pushed Hermione's hair aside and laid a light kiss on the nape of her neck. "Shower, first?"

She turned and wrapped her arms around his waist, laying her cool, damp cheek against his chest, and he slid his hands up and down her back, enjoying the feel of her, warm and firm against him. "Shower first," she agreed, and pulled back and smirked at him, an extremely _Slytherin_ expression that made his heat beat a little quicker. "You can help me wash my…hair." Her fingers trailed down his chest to his boxers, and Draco drew in a sharp little breath as cool wet fingers slipped under the waist of his cotton shorts and enclosed around his already half-hard dick.

"Oh Merlin…" he breathed, and then his lips found hers, her mouth tasting like mint and cherries as her nimble fingers wrapped around his dick and slowly pumped up and down. They stumbled interlocked towards the shower, blind and clumsy, and Draco shucked off his boxers as Hermione slid off her robe. Naked she was perfect; her nipples lusciously darker from the pregnancy, but body otherwise unchanged yet, and when Draco pulled her under the hot spray of the shower her creamy skin flushed pink from the heat of the water, her wild brown waves and tangles of hair went sleek and dripped water in runnels down her breasts. Merlin, she was fucking beautiful.

He pushed her gently up against the shower wall and bent his head to her breasts, the water sheeting over his head, his hands gripping the swell of her hips. Hermione whimpered and moaned, arching out into the swirl of his tongue over first one nipple, then the other, and Draco smiled smugly to himself. He shifted one hand to between her legs, his fingers teasing along her pussy, finding the nub of her clit and rubbing at it lightly; enough to make her moan and clamp her hands onto his shoulders, her head making a thunking sound as she threw it back thoughtlessly and hit the tiled walls. He winced and paused, but Hermione didn't seem to care, urging him on, spreading her legs apart a little and tipping her pelvis up, into the firm rub of his thumb and teasing probe of his fingers, making greedy, desperate little sounds.

He dropped to his knees on the shower floor, trying not to drown under the spray as he latched his mouth to her cunt, dragging his tongue over her clit and feeling her whole body tremble as a shudder rocked through her. "Oh god…" she whimpered and her fingers drove into his hair, pulling at it almost painfully as he licked and sucked, his hands clutching the soft curves of her arse. "Oh – oh – oh _Draco_ oh my _god_." He smirked and kept going. When Hermione came at last, her knees buckled and Draco had to hold her up, pinning her against the tiled wall. Her hair was plastered down like his, which he scraped off his face, licking his lips and grinning at her flushed face. "Good?"

"Oh _Merlin_, yes."

"Good," he said, and then hefted her up and thrust his achingly hard cock into her with a small groan. She was slick and hot, and so fucking delicious. She clung to him, arms hooked around his neck, mouth pressed to his shoulder, biting it firmly, wet and slippery, the water cascading down between them and over them, ragged moans breaking from her lips with each thrust. Shit, it felt so bloody good. Draco was more than halfway to coming when she suddenly thumped at his shoulder. "I – I'm going to be sick," she gasped and he swore in his head, vicious and filthy as she slithered to the ground and ran for the toilet. Draco groaned and slumped back against the tiled shower wall, staring first at Hermione – clutching onto the toilet and retching like she was trying to bring up her intestines – and then mournfully down at his hard cock. "Damnit."

He wrenched the shower off and grabbed a towel, scrubbing at his hair. "I'll go up to the hospital wing and see if Madam Pomfrey's got the potion ready," he said with resignation, and Hermione flapped a hand at him but didn't answer, too busy trying to vomit despite her empty stomach, coughing and gasping miserably. Merlin, so this was fucking pregnancy, was it? Madam Pomfrey had better have that bloody potion ready, Draco thought dourly. There was no bloody way he was letting Hermione go on like this, miserable and glued to the loo, whether it was apparently 'normal' or not.

**# # # # # #**

"'Arry! Ron! 'Ermione!" Hagrid stood on his doorstep and waved up at the three of them as they came down the hill. They waved back and called out hellos as they hurried toward the beaming half giant, as rough and cheerful looking as ever. Ron kept a sweetly solicitous if unnecessary grip on Hermione's elbow as they cut down the hill off the path. She was hardly anywhere near pregnant enough to get unbalanced and go arse over teakettle yet – she didn't even have a bump – but she suspected that in another few months she'd be glad of Ron's steadying grip. Fang shoved his way out the doorway past his maser and bounded up the hill to the trio, bouncing joyously about their heels and slobbering happily, nearly tripping them up more than once.

"Gerrout of it, Fang!" Hagrid boomed firmly and whistled, and the great hound broke away from them, trotting down to Hagrid with a forlorn, chastened manner. Hermione grimaced at the drool on her hand and wiped it on her jeans leg, glad she'd taken the anti-nausea potion before she'd come down – the slobber was stomach turning. Fang was a lovely dog, but a bit exuberant right now. They reached Hagrid, and Harry was enfolded into a crushing hug first, and laughed breathlessly as Hagrid released him and brushed away a few tears. "Good t' see you, 'Arry. It's been too long."

"Yeah, it has. And it's good to see you too, Hagrid."

Hermione was next, but her hug was gentle; Hagrid treating her like delicate porcelain, one huge hand patting her back lightly. "'Ermione. Professor McGonagall tells me yer going to be a mum!"

"Yes, I am – in about five months or so."

"Congratulations! Yer gonna make a great mum." Hagrid stepped back and scratched at his beard doubtfully. "Not so sure about Malfoy, though. Were a bit of a surprise t' hear you'd picked that ferrety boy – wasn't expecting that, 'Ermione." There was no malice in Hagrid's voice towards Draco, just pure surprise, and a bit of uncertainty, and Hermione smiled and shrugged.

"He's a bit less ferrety these days," she said flippantly, and Hagrid patted her on the shoulder with a fond look. "That's good, that is. Glad t' hear it."

He turned his attention to Ron now. "And yer married now an' all!" Hagrid dragged Ron forward into a hard squeeze, and then smacked him in the arm, an approving pat that made Ron near stagger. "And to that smart little Ravenclaw girl, no less. What was 'er name? C – Ch…?"

"Cho. Cho Chang," Ron said with a proud grin and a flush to his cheeks. "Of course, she's Cho Weasley now."

"Ah, good job, lad. I'm just sorry I missed the wedding." Hagrid sighed and looked around at the three of them, clustered at the doorstep and grinning up at him. "You lot are a sight for sore eyes, you are. Come on, come on. Come inside now, and I'll make yers all a cuppa." He ducked into the hut, waving them in briskly. "Don't mind the state of the place – I hain't finished cleaning up yet, and it's still a wee bit cobwebby."

Ron immediately flinched and looked around him nervously as he took a seat, and Hermione hid a smile behind her hand as she sat on a large, rickety chair after casting a surreptitious _scourgify_.

"Tea and biscuits, you lot?" Hagrid asked as he set the kettle on, and the three of them assented, Hermione planning to discreetly hide her rock cake rather than break her teeth on it.

"So, what have you been doing the past year or so, Hagrid?" Harry asked, petting a hand over Fang's head and playing with his silky ears.

"I've been off looking for giants mostly – trying to bring them over to our side o' things, with Grawp's help. Other magical folk and creatures too." Hagrid scratched at his matted head, waiting by the range for the kettle to boil. "I've been right round the world since I left 'ere, looking for allies as might be more re-cept-ive to me 'n' Grawpy than witches and wizards. Centaurs, taniwhas, deep sea merpeople, yetis – all kinds o' fascinating folk and intelligent creatures. O' course, we got ourselves into a fair few scraps along the way, but no trouble like I 'ear you've been dealing with."

Hagrid pulled the whistling kettle off the range and slopped the water into chipped china mugs, giving the teabags a vigorous stir. "It 'asn't been easy for yers, 'as it?"

Hermione bit her lip as she remembered the torture she had endured all too sharply – generally she tried not to think of it, suppressing it until it only came out when she was asleep, in the form of all-too-vivid nightmares. "No. No it hasn't," she said quietly, and the room stilled. Harry gave her a tight, sympathetic smile, and Ron patted her knee comfortingly, saying, "But we're still alive and fighting," with awkward optimism. Hermione knew with absolute certainty that he was thinking about Cho's leg, Hermione and Draco's torture, and all the other hurts and deaths their side had suffered since the war had begun.

"That yer are," Hagrid said with slightly forced cheerfulness, plonking the mugs of tea down in front of each of them, and setting a plate of his infamous rock cakes in the centre of the table. "And the war could be ending sooner rather than later, right, 'Arry?" Hagrid asked the Boy-Who-Lived, his chair creaking as he sat down beside Harry and picked up a rock cake, nibbling at it.

"Yeah, it could be. Once Remus, Kingsley, and the others think the castle is fortified well enough, and all our allies have arrived, I'm going to call Voldemort out. Send him a challenge." Harry's voice was grim, and he looked down into the cup of tea clutched between his hands. "Voldemort won't be able to turn down my challenging him without losing face, so we think – we think he'll bring all his forces, and fight."

Hagrid nodded his big head, but Hermione's eyes slid away from him and focused on Harry, and the dread in his face was more that she would have expected to see there, even given the severity of the situation. She worried about that as she took a rock cake and slipped it sneakily into her pocket.

"A showdown then, eh?" Hagrid asked, and Harry nodded. "If he comes," he said, lips white, "Then I don't plan for him to leave. That's – that's where it will end."

"And it'll be over," Hagrid said, still trying for cheerfulness despite the sudden, stifling tension in the shack. Harry swallowed. "Yeah. It'll be over."

Hermione wondered at how terribly frightening it must be for Harry, to know that the fate of the wizarding world rested on his shoulders. No wonder he had become so quite and grave over the past few days; it was only reasonable, she thought, as she sipped at her rather weak cup of tea. Still, she would keep a close eye on Harry from now on. Something didn't seem quite right.

**# # # # # #**

Draco nodded goodbye to Remus, who had kindly offered to apparate him to his mother's safehouse, and took a deep breath and walked up the path to the kitchen door. His mother greeted him just moments after he knocked on the door; she'd been expecting him.

"Mother. How are you today?" Draco kissed her lightly on the cheek, smiling as warmly as he could manage; he desperately wanted his relationship with his mother to be mended and thrive, but it was still so awkward to be around her. She gave him a fond smile, and patted his cheek.

"I'm well, thank you, Draco. You, however, look terribly tired." She ushered him to the kitchen table and moved gracefully to the bench where the jug was just finishing boiling, pouring two cups of tea and setting one in front of him. She seated herself opposite him, looking elegant in a simple dusty blue dress, her long, pale hair in a neat coil at the base of her neck. She looked almost like a real mother, Draco thought idly as he sipped at his tea. A silly thought, because whether she was in fine robes or a plain dress, she _was _his mother. She just looked far more…maternal, like this, without all her finery.

"I _feel_ tired. Hermione hasn't been sleeping well lately, so neither have I," he said, trying to sound casual and relaxed, but choosing his words carefully.

"She is well?" his mother inquired politely, fingers curled around her tea cup, the skin slightly reddened as if from work that in the past she never would have done, her nails no longer neatly manicured.

"Madam Pomfrey says so, but, well – you saw Hermione yesterday. She's been getting terrible morning sickness the past few days, she's not eating enough, and sleeping badly, as I said." He didn't tell his mother why she slept badly; his mother had no right to know about the nightmares Hermione had. "But Madam Pomfrey gave her a potion to eliminate the nausea today, so hopefully she'll start feeling better soon." Shit it was awkward talking to his mother like this, about the Muggleborn woman he'd impregnated, who he loved more than anything. Draco grimaced and drank more tea.

"Pregnancy is never easy," his mother said neutrally, and took a delicate sip of her own tea. Draco sighed, shoulders slumping, weary of the act playing out between them. "Mother?" Cornflower blue eyes met grey ones across the table. "I know that Hermione is not who you would have wanted me to be with, and marry, and I can accept that you're uncomfortable with that… But do I have your blessing?"

Narcissa's gaze stayed steady and sharp on her son, her features still and unreadable. "Do you need it?" she asked him quietly, and Draco set his jaw and straightened his shoulders. "No. No, I don't. But I would like it. Hermione is…" She was intelligent, practical, brave, beautiful, irritating – so fucking strong – always supported him, was carrying his child, and somehow loved him despite his past and all of his faults. He cleared his throat. "I love her, mother. I plan to spend the rest of my life with her, whether you give me your blessing or not. But I _would_ like it."

He felt flayed raw, emotions laid bare, vulnerable in front of the woman whom he knew loved him fiercely, but who he couldn't trust to act in his best interests. For once, Draco just wanted his mother to place him and his happiness ahead of blasted, pointless tradition. She nodded slowly, her fingertips tracing idly over the tea cup handle as she stared at him for a long, silent moment. "You have it, Draco."

A breath whooshed out of him, and the tension dropped away from him; his relief more intense than he had anticipated. He hadn't realised how much it meant to him for his mother to be truly, genuinely accepting until now. "Thank you, mother."

"Miss Granger may not be pure blooded, but she is a bright, capable witch, and you two are obviously well-suited. I may not be…hmm…comfortable, with her Muggleborn heritage, but I would be foolish not to accept your relationship. The world is changing, and recently I have come to realise that I must change with it, or be left behind." She sighed, and then gave Draco a brittle, bright smile. Now, would you like some morning tea? I have tried my hand at baking, this morning, and there are fresh date scones in the larder."

Draco smiled faintly at the thought of his mother swathed in an apron and up to the elbows with flour – she had always left such things up to the house elves. It was a lovely image, her doing something so utterly out of her comfort zone, but it also made his heart pang with a strange sadness. Grief, perhaps, at the fact that any changes she made would be too late for him – if only she had begun to change years ago, when he was still a child. At least his children would get to appreciate a grandmother that acted like a grandmother should, and not a cool, distant woman bound by traditions that restricted and chafed at her true nature.

"That would be nice," he told her, and she stood, brushing her fingers lightly beneath her eyes, the dampness of tears staining her skin. Draco felt a little choked up himself. He watched her hurry to the larder and fetch the scones, standing at the bench and slathering them carefully with butter, before arranging them carefully on a gilt-edged platter. He stood and crossed to her, laying his hands on her shoulders as she fussed with the scones.

"I love you, mother," he said softly and awkwardly, squeezing her shoulders and leaning forward to lay a light kiss on her cheek, like he always used to as a boy. She made a quiet, strangled sound, and then lifted her hand to pat his, still resting on her shoulder. "I love you too, my darling boy." Her voice had a tremor to it, choked with tears. "More than you can imagine."

**# # # # # #**

"It's a beautiful night," Hermione said quietly, and the silhouette sitting at the edge of the Astronomy Tower started slightly, twisting to face her. Draco's features were lit up by the soft blue of Hermione's _lumos _as she approached, he watching her contemplatively. "Yeah. It is," he said equally quietly, turning his gaze back to the stars as Hermione sat down beside him, and whispered, "_Nox._"

The stars were bright tonight, the sky clear and cloudless, with a brisk autumn chill to the air that cut through Hermione's cloak and jersey. Draco slid his arm around her and she leant into his warmth, suppressing a yawn. It had been a long day – Draco's mother and Pansy had decided during his visit to them to relocate to Hogwarts, and had moved immediately. Hermione had gotten herself involved in helping them settle in, and between that, her long visit with Hagrid, and then several hours spent helping to strengthen the castle's wards, well, she was knackered. She'd hardly seen Draco all day, and this evening she had been pulled into spending time with old friends and Order members who were returning to Hogwarts in dribs and drabs, in anticipation of the upcoming battle – or battles. It had been good to catch up, but she resented the fact that it took time away from her and Draco.

"Look," she said, pointing at the star-speckled bowl of sky. "There's you."

Draco made a soft, amused sound, the fingers of his false hand pressing tightly into her waist through her cloak, the silver of them catching the starlight. "It is."

"And there – Lyra. That's a rather pretty name, isn't it?" she asked, pointing it out, her breath puffing little clouds of warmth in the air. "And Cygnus is over there. Not quite as nice a name as Lyra, though." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Draco smirk knowingly at her as she continued. "And Vega. That's quite a nice, strong name, don't you think?"

"Hermione…" He said her name in a rough, low voice that was brimming with tenderness, his fingers reaching further around her to stroke the edge of her abdomen.

"Or Merak, or Caph," she continued, and Draco chuckled shortly. "You're picking out names, aren't you?" Again, he spoke with that rough tenderness that made Hermione's insides flood with warmth and her breath catch. "I –" She met eyes that looked nearly black in the shine of the far off stars. "I thought you might like to carry on the tradition…"

His mouth worked but nothing came out, and then he tugged her closer and pressed cool lips to her temple. "I would, actually," he murmured with something like surprise in his tone, and then cleared his throat and inhaled deeply, turning his eyes back to the sky. "I don't like Vega, though, I'm afraid," he said after a moment, and the smirk was back in his voice, the cracked emotion gone without a trace.

"Oh? What about Merak, then? Or Caph?" Herione didn't really particularly like either of those names, but she wasn't telling Draco that. She had a feeling she might have to negotiate names, with Draco.

"No. Not that I _dis_like them, but…I've always liked Scorpius, for a boy."

"Scorpius…" Hermione repeated the name like one tasted wine; rolling it about her mouth and getting a feel for it. "It's a little, well…scorpion-ish, but I do like it. I think." She nestled further into Draco's arms and laid her head against his chest, feeling his heart thump slow and steady. "I have a feeling it might grow on me. What about girls' names?"

"Tell me yours, first," he countered, and Hermione grinned. "Well, I do like Lyra, but actually, I keep coming back to Cassiopeia."

"That's quite a mouthful," he said lightly but with a hint of brittleness, and Hermione found herself strangely defensive of the name. "It is long, yes. But it's so pretty, and we could always call her Cass, or Cassie, or –"

"Pea," Draco interrupted. "Yes, I remember, Hermione. You told me that you dreamt of a future where –"

A chill ran down Hermione's spine. "When we were…captured?"

Draco went very stiff against her, and his heartbeats quickened. "Yes. You told me that in the dream we had a daughter, and named her Cassiopeia, and –"

"Ron nicknamed her Pea…" Hermione remembered now, vaguely, like looking at shapes through a foggy window. "I'd forgotten. Only, I suppose I hadn't."

"I like Carina, for a girl, myself, but –" Draco paused and smiled tightly at her, although his heart still tripped too fast against the hand she had resting against his chest. "If you like Cassiopeia…"

"Not if you don't."

"How about this, then. If it's a girl, you pick the first name, and I'll pick the middle name, and –"

"If it's a boy, you pick the first, and I'll pick the middle," Hermione finished, and nodded with satisfaction. "That sounds fair." She patted her abdomen. "Little Scorpius Granger-Malfoy, or Cassiopeia Granger-Malfoy."

Draco's mouth suddenly sought hers, and Hermione tipped her head up and let him kiss her, long and slow under the stars. His lips were cool and dry, a shocking contrast to the hot slickness of his tongue as she parted her lips to the kiss, and she whimpered, clutching at him. Her hands fisted in his hair, his hands bracing her waist, twisted to face each other, legs dangling off the edge of the tower. He was greedy and tender, and she pressed into him, making little moaning sounds, forgetting about the frightening drop below them, or the star-strewn sky above. Her eyes were tightly shut and her feet hung in thin air, and Draco's mouth was on hers, sending sparking shoots of lust brightly through her, and all Hermione could do was _feel_. Everything else just…fell away.

**# # # # # #**

**Author's Note: **It's Hagrid! Hehe, I hope I wrote him all right – I've never written him before :p

To be honest, I'm not sure how well I did at all, this chapter, what with so long out of the groove, and my muse being fickle and abandoning me :/

Please leave a review and let me know what you thought of it!

In the next chapter, we'll be moving swiftly towards the Final Battle…

(Just a note – the story will not end at the Final Battle, but about…ooh, maybe three to five years after the end of the war, plus an epilogue.)


	18. Road to Ruin

**Author's Note: **I'm so sorry I've been taking so long with my updates! Thank you _so much_ to everyone who has reviewed. Much love to you all – I do appreciate it immensely! **Trigger Warnings, rape and torture.** Without further ado…

**# # # # # #**

**15. Road to Ruin**

_I don't know where you're going_

_But do you got room for one more troubled soul?_

_I don't know where I'm going but I don't think I'm coming home_

_And I said I'll check in tomorrow if I don't wake up dead_

_This is the road to ruin_

_And we're starting at the end_

_Say yeah_

_Let's be alone together_

_We could stay young forever_

_Scream it from the top of your lungs_

_[Alone Together, Fallout Boy]_

**# # # # # #**

The time ticked by paradoxically; the days seemed to slip through Hermione's fingers like sand through an hourglass, but each individual moment felt like it was frozen in limbo, thanks to the anticipation that hung in the air. Hogwarts' current residents were harried and busy making preparations – strengthening the castle's wards, laying magical traps around Hogwarts' bounds, stocking the hospital wing, and planning defensive tactics. There didn't seem to be enough hours in the day to complete all the tasks they wanted done before either Harry challenged Voldemort, or Voldemort decided to attack of his own accord.

Everyone worked like mad; Hermione spent most of her days in the potions classroom, brewing up healing potions and the like, and Draco was mostly assigned to working on defensive tactics and setting magical traps. But at the same time as they were all working themselves to exhaustion, the tension of _waiting_ practically vibrated in the atmosphere, everyone keyed up for the action they knew was coming. The knowledge of the near certain battle approaching loomed over them all, and tempers frayed, nerves were strung tight, and fear was thick and cloying in the halls of Hogwarts. For her part, Hermione felt as though she was desperately trying to flee from danger in a sea of treacle; it was frantic and exhausting, and the danger grew ever closer, and yet she couldn't go _fast_ enough.

The strain of preparing and waiting began to wear down the Order members, every one of them. No one was immune, but some people suffered worse than others. Hermione's nightmares were every night – as usual – but Draco had begun having more too – she suspected he was having even more than she was aware of – and from what Hermione had heard many of the others were also suffering from bad dreams. Everyone was snippy and touchy, arguments arising out of nothing, and Draco was far too often the focus of people's anger – new arrivals that hadn't lived with or fought alongside Draco, saw his Dark Mark, and hated him. Hermione and the others tried to explain to people that Draco had defected – he was on their side, he had risked his life, been tortured and wounded for them, but all people saw was a Death Eater.

Hermione hated it – the looks they threw Draco, the nasty words they hissed as they walked past, the occasional hexes he was struck with. But he refused to retaliate, and refused to let her defend him either. He just ignored it all. Like he was ignoring the boy who was hissing hate-filled words at him as Hermione and Draco walked toward the Great Hall for lunch. She glared at the boy whom she didn't recognise, fixing his face in her mind so that she could tell him off later when she was alone, and tightening her grip on Draco's hand.

"I don't know why you let them do this."

"They have every right to hate me, Hermione," Draco said distantly, and inhaled deeply, letting it out slow, his fingers threaded tight through Hermione's.

"It's not _fair_." She flashed a look over her shoulder at the boy, who was staring after them with an intense disdain that she cringed from.

"Since when is life fair?" Draco asked her with a hint of cynical amusement. "I would have thought you would have been disabused of that notion by now."

"That's not the point, Draco!" She blinked as tears sprang up, shoving them back down and glaring at the floor. "None of them know what you've gone through for the Order. If they knew – god, if they could even just use their bloody heads and realise that obviously you wouldn't be accepted by all the inner members of the Order without good reason…"

"They'd still hate me," he told her bluntly, tugging her around the corner, away from the contemptuous face of the boy, still slouching against the wall and staring after them. "I did plenty worthy of hate before I defected, and what I've done since hasn't erased that –"

"I disagree," Hermione argued stubbornly, ending the conversation right there, and narrowing her eyes at Draco, daring him to try to argue with her. He snorted as he recognised her challenge, and the faint lines etched at the corners of his eyes crinkled as he grinned down at her. "Fine. You win. I deserve nothing less than total absolution, and everyone who hates me is a nasty little prick."

She chuckled as they entered the Great Hall, and nodded, enjoying the way the smile shaped his face. "I'm glad you've finally seen sense, and realised that, as always, I am right."

"Or I just don't wish to argue with the mother of my future child, while she's in such a delicate condition," he teased, and she scrunched up her face and nudged him sharply in the ribs with her elbow as they approached the Gryffindor table. "You're a gigantic prat."

"I know. But you love it," he told her as they reached their usual places at the long table, across from Harry, Ron, and Ginny, with Luna beside Hermione, and Dean next to Draco.

"What does she love, Malfoy?" Harry asked idly through a mouthful of scrambled eggs as they sat down at the Gryffindor table, and Draco flashed Harry a wicked smirk. "Do you _really _want to know, Potter?"

"Oh bloody hell, that's disgusting," Ron complained as Hermione thumped Draco on the arm. "Draco!" She was bright red, just like Harry was; his throat jerking convulsively as he choked on his mouthful of egg, Ginny giggling and patting her boyfriend on the back as he gasped for air.

"Draco was saying I love that he's a gigantic –" Ron's eyes went wide and he slammed his hands over his ears. "– _prat!_" Hermione finished loudly enough for Ron to hear, and he dropped his hands, looking a little sheepish. "Honestly, Ronald, what did you think I was going to say?"

"Never mind!" he insisted frantically and shoved an entire bit of toast in his mouth to stall further questioning, glaring at Cho and Draco when they sniggered at him; somehow the two had become quite friendly. Which made sense in a way, Hermione supposed – Ravenclaw and Slytherin students had always gotten along much better than Gryffindor and Slytherin. There were rather more similarities between the former two houses than the latter – intelligence and cunning went well together.

"How's the morning sickness today?" Angelina asked from further down the table, sandwiched between Fred and George, and Hermione smiled at the older witch, who was looking very pregnant now. "Much better since Madam Pomfrey made me up those potions, thank you, Angelina. Pregnancy is much more enjoyable when you're not vomiting your insides out every day."

"No talk of vomit at the table!" Seamus protested from beside Dean, and Hermione harrumphed. "Says the wizard who chews with his mouth open. _Pot_, meet _kettle_."

Seamus wrinkled his brow, and was about to shoot back a playful retort when someone cleared their throat beside him. Hermione watched as Seamus spun around in his chair, to meet Pansy Parkinson's eyes. He went slightly pale, and then flushed, and Hermione raised an eyebrow, hoping he wasn't about to let loose on the Slytherin with a furious tirade. Pansy had been helping out with preparations since she and Narcissa had arrived, four days ago now, and Hermione wanted to be as welcoming to the Slytherin girl as possible. Pansy insisted on fighting in the final battle, helping strengthen the defences, and had generally been extremely polite and civil – for Pansy Parkinson. She was still rather rude, cold and snippy, but Hermione could tell she was also lonely, and wanted to be accepted – not that she would ever admit to that.

"Could I sit here?" Pansy asked nervously, her eyes flicking from Seamus to Draco, and Hermione did the same and saw Draco smile and nod reassuringly at his oldest friend, and ex-girlfriend. She stared back down at Seamus, who cleared his throat and nodded stiffly. "Of course, Pa – Parkinson. It's a free country. Sit where you like."

Pansy smiled faintly and inclined her head, and Hermione thought she saw a faint flush to the witch's cheeks as she sat next to Seamus, and began filling her plate with food. Interesting. Hermione was quite proud of Seamus for being so polite, and keeping his cool, and although he and Pansy avoided each other's eyes awkwardly, at least they weren't fighting. Perhaps inter-House unity was possible after all. She nibbled on her bit of toast – she didn't want to test the limits of the anti-nausea potion with rich foods too early in the morning – and nudged Draco, dragging his attention back from Pansy. He arched an eyebrow at Hermione questioningly and smiled, and her stomach went all flippy-floppy and melty. God, when he smiled like that everything just flew out of her head.

"Ye-es?" he prompted with amusement when Hermione sat for a second too long just gazing at him, and then shook herself and blushed. "Where's your mother? Still taking her meals in her room?"

"Yes. She is certain her presence will not be appreciated here, and I can't blame her for feeling that way, because it wouldn't be." He grimaced and stabbed carelessly at a slice of pineapple, pushing it around his plate. "I think Shacklebolt, Lupin and McGonagall prefer it this way, too. They don't need emotions getting high, and trouble breaking out, and my mother is a likely catalyst for trouble."

Hermione nodded thoughtfully, feeling bad for Draco that even now, his relationship with his mother and how she slotted into his life was far from simple. "Yes, I suppose she is," she admitted, giving him a tight, sympathetic smile.

They fell silent then, eating and listening to the conversations going on around them. Luna was explaining a clearly mythological creature, that she was convinced was real, to Neville. Dean and Ron were chatting animatedly about Quidditch, while Seamus sat uncharacteristically silent beside Pansy, not once looking at her. Luna eventually struck up a conversation with Hermione, and the two of them tried to talk over the others as Harry and Draco got drawn into the Quidditch talk, along with Ginny, Cho, the twins, and Angelina. Hermione thought it was rather unfair that she was surrounded by Quidditch fans, and was trapped into either discussing a game she had no interest in, or being lectured kindly by Luna about nargles.

She could be trapped in worse situations, Hermione reminded herself with a pained grimace. She tried to focus on what Luna was happily chattering on about, and picked at the food Draco had shovelled onto her plate – he was constantly trying to feed her up, like a bloody pig for slaughter. It was rather sweet, but _very_ irritating. She might be thin, but Madam Pomfrey said she was fine. She did _not_ need to eat two hardboiled eggs, two bits of French toast, and a bowl of fruit the size of her head. She would burst before she finished all that. Once breakfast was finished, people began to trickle away in dribs and drabs to do their work for the day – mostly people were split between patrolling Hogwarts' perimeter and Hogsmeade, strengthening the castle's wards and laying defensive traps, and organising the incoming arrivals into teams that could fight together – many of the newcomers had only rudimentary duelling skill.

She kissed Draco goodbye lingeringly at the doors to the Great Hall, tasting sweet tea and maple syrup on his tongue, ignoring the disgusted noises Ron was making as he waited for Draco to hurry up – the two of them were one of the patrol teams for Hogwarts today. Draco growled, mouth still latched to hers and the sound sending a rumbling vibration through her that made her shiver deliciously. "Oh piss off, Weasley," Draco said when he broke the kiss, shooting Ron a murderous glance. "If you don't like seeing it, then stop perving on us."

"Fine," Ron said, freckled face all set in a scowl, which transformed like magic to a sunny grin as he lifted a hand in a half-wave for Hermione. "Have a good morning, 'Mione. See you at lunch, yeah?"

"You too, Ron," Hermione said brightly, and then turned her eyes back to Draco, trailing her fingers down his smooth-shaven cheek. "Play nicely with Ron, today."

"Oh you know me and the Weasel. All bloody bark and no bite these days." Draco smirked. "Might try to knock him off his broom though."

"God, you're – you're –" Hermione sputtered, half-amused, half-annoyed, and Draco laughed. "Irresistible?"

"I was going to say, a bloody git, but irresistible works rather well too," she said softly and kissed his lips again, before slipping out of his arms and dancing back a few steps. "I'll see you at lunch, and Ron better be in one piece!" she called, as she turned and headed for the dungeons, grinning to herself, all fuzzy inside.

"Careful with the potions! Make sure you double-bloody-check what's safe to brew while up the duff, and what's not!" Draco yelled sternly, and Hermione turned around long enough to roll her eyes at him before hurrying away towards the potions classroom. Up the duff? How horridly crude – he must have picked it up from Ron. She kept smiling to herself as she bustled along, trying to focus on the list of potions she wanted to have completed by lunch, but instead, tasting lingering traces of maple syrup on her tongue. It wasn't very conducive for her concentration, but the warm, happy feelings it made well up inside her were very welcome, ruined concentration or no.

**# # # # # #**

Hermione sighed as she added the slivered lamb's ear to the soothing potion she was brewing, and smiled when a puff of pale greenish smoke floated up from the bubbling mixture. So far, so good. She began to stir, mind elsewhere – three clockwise and four counter-clockwise, until the potion began to smell of lemons and turned a pale grassy green, which took around ten minutes on average, depending on the freshness of the ingredients. She frowned as she stirred; she had spent over a week of mornings potion-brewing now, and thanks to her pregnancy was mostly limited to boring, simple potions that contained harmless ingredients and could not put off dangerous fumes. It was getting extremely frustrating to be limited when she knew she could be doing so much more, but she couldn't put the pregnancy at risk.

Her hair was frizzy and sticky from a morning spent over a hot cauldron, and her stomach was starting to complain. She checked the time idly, and was shocked to discover it was already coming up on lunch. No wonder her back and neck were beginning to ache, her wrist hurt from all the chopping, and her stomach grumble – she had been bent over the desk preparing ingredients and tending simmering cauldrons all morning without pause. Well, this potion would be done shortly, and she should have just enough time to set a batch of blood-replenishing potion to brewing before Draco came up to drag her down to lunch, which was perfect, because blood-replenishing potion needed to simmer for two hours before the last two ingredients were added.

She couldn't help making a face at the thought of Draco hauling her off to lunch like an infant who couldn't look after herself, rolling her eyes. He had become absolutely impossible lately – utterly over-protective, doting on her to a point where she just wanted to _scream_, even though she knew he meant well. He was worse than Ron, which was saying something. Hermione must have been very visibly irritated, because Narcissa Malfoy's clear voice cut the air and nearly made Hermione drop her stirring spoon in the potion.

"Tired, Hermione? I can pause in my bottling if you like, and finish stirring and bottling your potion, so you can go get some rest," Narcissa offered stiltedly from her place across the room, and Hermione shook her head, watching Draco's mother as she filled vials of perfectly made _felix felicous_ without spilling a drop. The older witch was as poised and elegant as ever despite a morning of brewing complex potions, and her blue eyes held polite concern. It set Hermione off-balance still, to see that expression on Narcissa's face, and directed at Hermione, no less. It was _unnatural_.

"Thank you, but I'm fine, Mrs Malfoy - I was just thinking. No need to take you away from your work." Hermione gave the woman a friendly if cautious smile, and returned to her stirring. She had been shocked when, a few days after her and Pansy's shift to Hogwarts, Narcissa had come into the potions classroom and asked if she could assist Hermione. She mustn't have hidden her surprise very well, because Narcissa had smiled and rather dryly asked a speechless Hermione where exactly she thought Draco had gotten his aptitude for potions. She had also confided, rather coolly, that she felt unable to fight in any battles where she might come up against her husband, and thus the least she could do was help in other ways. They worked in silence, mostly, save a few civil chats about the weather and Hermione's health, and Hermione discovered that Narcissa did indeed have a flair for potions.

It was, as she had said to Draco as they spooned in bed one night, rather strange being around his mother, but not entirely unpleasant. _'Awkward,' _he had said wryly, and sighed in understanding. They both found it a little uncomfortable having his mother and Pansy in such close quarters, living in rooms just down the corridor from Draco's bedroom in the dungeons. In fact, it was awkward for all of them – except Pansy, who didn't seem to understand the concept of 'awkwardness', seeming constantly slightly superior and smug, if a little withdrawn. While she was still brittle from what she had gone through, the Slytherin girl had made an amazing recovery from her ordeal, and Hermione couldn't help admiring her for that.

As much as Hermione might not get on with Pansy on a personal level, she had a certain respect for her. And Draco cared about Pansy with a degree of closeness that irritated Hermione at the same time as she thought it was sweet. So she could hardly hate the girl. She wondered if her relationship with Ron, and to a lesser extent, Harry, made Draco feel the same irrational possessiveness Hermione did when she saw Draco and Pansy chatting, with that comfortable, snarky rapport between them. She checked the time again, and made another face, still steadily stirring. Hermione might be hungry, but she had no interest in being force-fed by a solicitous Draco. She sighed heavily.

"May I inquire as to what is bothering you so? Are you sure you wouldn't like me to finish the brewing for you?" Narcissa asked cautiously, and Hermione smiled and shook her head in negation. "No, Mrs Malfoy. I was just thinking of your son, and the way he seems determined to feed me up like a goose destined for a roast dinner. He'll be up soon to collect me for lunch, and I can guarantee you he'll pester me until I've eaten far more than I need to," she answered lightly, half her mind on keeping count of her stirs – three clockwise, four counter. "He seems to think that I should be eating enough for two full-grown adults. I've tried to explain to him that at this point I actually need to eat very little extra, but he is, well, he's –"

"Stubborn?" Narcissa offered, generous mouth curving, and Hermione laughed. "I was going to say _Draco_, but it amounts to about the same thing." The potion turned at last, a lemony smell wafting faintly off it, and she killed the flame beneath the pewter cauldron, satisfied that it had turned out just right.

"I have never seen Draco as attentive and concerned as he is with you, Hermione." Narcissa smile from across the room as she firmly stopped one of the vials of _felix felicius_ – one of Hermione's ideas. When Voldemort and his followers turned up on Hogwarts' doorstep, they would all need plenty of luck. "He obviously loves you a great deal. I never thought…generally purebloods make matches of convenience, not love. Of course, love – or at least affection – is generally hoped for in a match, but not considered necessary. To see Draco breaking tradition like this…" Narcissa paused and her eyes drifted away, unfocused as though she was somewhere else, before she blinked and set a stoppered vial down in its slot in a rack with all the others. "It's unsettling, but… I…" The older witch bit her lip and paused again, searching for words.

Hermione wondered rather suspiciously what exactly Narcissa was up to – what she was trying to say, whether she would take back all the rather positive things she just said. She cast a cooling charm on her soothing potion and began filling vials herself, watching Narcissa from the corner of her eye.

"I am very glad Draco has found you, Hermione. You have changed him for the better, and I would no longer want to see him with anyone but you," Narcissa admitted at last, and in her shock, Hermione nearly dropped the vial of potion she held. "You approve?"

"I have come to do so, yes. It's impossible to deny the positive effect you have on him, and how happy you make him, and I am glad of it. I never thought my son would be able to pursue a relationship purely for love." Narcissa straightened and exhaled sharply, shaking away the visible melancholy that had taken over her as she spoke. "I say, let Draco fuss, Hermione. He only worries so much because he loves you. Besides, to be perfectly honest, you are rather looking rather scrawny."

Hermione dipped up another ladleful of potion and poured it carefully into an empty vial, marvelling at the fact that she was having such an open, genuine conversation with Narcissa Malfoy, of all people. The older witch had never talked about such emotional things before, keeping all talk strictly to everyday pleasantries, and this – this was unexpected. "I'm rather surprised at how just much he fusses," Hermione said with a twist of amusement, quite aware that it had all started happening since she had quite suddenly started showing more obvious symptoms of the pregnancy, and begun talking openly about it to the others. Perhaps it was just instinct for a wizard to become ridiculously, annoyingly over-protective when his partner was pregnant.

"He takes after my side of the family," Narcissa confided. "The Blacks have always been a family who felt things very deeply. Good Slytherins on the surface, with plenty of cunning and ambition, but beneath, we are rather…emotional. Even Bella, in her own mad way, feels things with an intensity that L – Lucius and his family did not. Lucius used to tell me that I was too soft, too delicate and easily affected, not ruthless enough. And Draco inherited those traits from me," Narcissa folded her hands together around a vial of _felix felicius _and her features were drawn with sadness and grief as she spoke her husband's name. Hermione's friendly mood vanished, taken over by a sickened, angry twisting of her stomach, and a clammy sweat that made her feel flushed and cold at once.

"_Good_," Hermione said without thinking, her mind on Lucius and the cold madness he was mired in, the sadism he had embraced. Yes; despite their similarity in appearance, Draco and his Merlin-damned father couldn't be more different in nature, and that was very, very good. Hermione snapped her mouth shut and turned her focus back to her potion, hoping Narcissa would drop the subject now, so they could go back to the safety of silence. She had no such luck.

"Lucius didn't think it was, I'm afraid. He loved Draco, but he was always too hard on him – his expectations were too high," Narcissa mused, her usually serenely composed face still drawn with pain.

"No offence, Mrs Malfoy, but I find it hard to believe your husband could love anyone," Hermione said sharply, before she could censor herself and bite the angry words back to simmer inside. She couldn't stop thinking about Draco's hand, and Cho's leg, and Pansy, and his visit to their cell. The assault he'd attempted on Hermione, the threats he'd made about what he'd do to his son. Her blood ran hot and cold and her heart began to thump unsteadily and hard in her chest, breath catching short and fingers white-knuckled around the handle of her ladle. How dare Narcissa bring him up, how dare Narcissa speak of him with anything but the contempt he deserved? All her speeches to Draco about how it was _different _for Narcissa, how it was _hard _for her too went right out the bloody window.

Narcissa pressed her lips together tightly, and her drawn, pale features hardened, blue eyes narrowing. "He did. He _did_, Hermione. He loved Draco and me more than anything in the world. And I think, in his own way, he still does."

The words were like a trigger, and Hermione suddenly swayed and clutched at the workbench as the ladle fell from her numbed fingers. Memory rose up, flashes of those moments in the cell with Lucius, of the way Draco had been after he'd learnt Lucius had raped Pansy, of the pain and betrayal in his eyes when he spoke of his father, of the way it had hurt him so much when his mother had to think about it before choosing him. But mostly, she thought of the cell. And not just the moments that Lucius had been there, but _all of _it – everything she constantly tried to suppress and forget came rushing up to the surface, and she choked on it, bitter as bile. Anger and horror and _memory_ made her eyes sting with the threat of tears.

"That's not love, Mrs Malfoy," she choked out. "What Draco and I have – _that's_ love. Harry and Ginny, Ron and Cho, Mr and Mrs Weasley – t-that is what love is like. Lu–Lucius doesn't even know what love _is!_" Her voice rose to nearly a shout, and her eyes blurred over with unshed tears. "Love doesn't maim his son, love doesn't _rape _his son's ex-girlfriend – or _anyone_ for that matter! Love doesn't kill and rape and murder and torture, love doesn't _threaten to rape his son's girlfriend and cut his son's hand off one finger at a time!_" She was really shouting now, chest heaving and shoulders jerking as she tried to hold in her sobs, a feeling of thoughtless wild panic taking over her as the flashbacks rolled through her like an avalanche.

Narcissa flinched back. "It's not him. It's not him! Not my Lucius! He was driven mad by his damned imprisonment – it's not his _fault_. It's _not his –_"

"Exactly, Mrs Malfoy! _It's not him! _The Lucius Malfoy that exists now is not the husband you remember, he is a vicious, sadistic _monster_, and there is no coming back from that! Your husband is _gone_, and you need to accept that! Stop defending him! Stop trying to make things okay! They aren't, and they never will be! There is no going back. _Accept that _before you lose everything else you care about!" Hermione shouted, and turned and fled for the door, half-blind from the tears that filled her eyes and overflowed, dripping down her cheeks in a flood, racking sobs building up inside her until the pressure was unbearable. She heard Narcissa call something, but she couldn't make it out over her own rasping breathing as she wrenched the door to the potions classroom open and fled through it, slamming it shut behind her with a crash.

Hermione rushed through the corridors at a near-run, head down to hide her tears from anyone who she might pass, her breath wrenching and muscles taut and trembling as the helpless rage took over her. She didn't think about where she was going, just kept her feet moving, and tried to remember to _breathe_ past the memories that roared up, seizing her and shaking her like a rag doll; unstoppable and overwhelming. "Calm down, Hermione. Get a hold of yourself," she mumbled under her breath, wringing her hands together as she went blindly along corridors and up stairs, as though she was – irrationally – trying to outrun the feelings and thoughts Narcissa _fucking _Malfoy had evoked so sharply. Hermione didn't know why Narcissa's words had set her off when she had gone so long without breaking down – she had kept it together through so much. It was almost embarrassing that all it had taken was a fight with her future mother-in-law to turn her into a blubbering wreck.

Hermione had a feeling that this moment, this breakdown, had been coming for a while now, and Narcissa had merely been the straw that broke the camel's back.

She kept remembering _everything_. Everything they had suffered, but especially those things that were Lucius' fault – and yet still, _still_, Narcissa defended him. Defended him to the witch he had tried to _rape_. It all flashed through her mind, like a Muggle movie on loop, and Hermione couldn't get away from it, couldn't suppress it. Finally, after weeks of _surviving_, getting through the days, shoving the memories deep, deep down, ignoring the nightmares, finding happiness wherever she could and clinging to it – finally it all came to the surface in a flood that was drowning her. She felt like she couldn't _breathe_. And then she was panting up the last few steps, and the wind swept over her face. Sharp and cold, drying her tears and whipping at her.

Somehow, Hermione had let her feet lead her blindly to the Astronomy Tower, and the brisk wind that grabbed at her clothing and whipped through her hair was like salvation. She heaved in a long breath, pushing her hair off her face and walking slowly to the edge of the tower, hands clasping over the cold metal of the railing. The world dropped away beneath her, and the sky was a grey bowl above, teeming with high clouds, and Hermione felt the tight sobs leave her. She sat down on the edge of the Tower, arms clinging to the lower railing and forehead bowed against it, and wept. Her shoulders shook and hot tears dripped on her jeans-clad thighs as she cried. She remembered everything as clearly as if it had happened yesterday, and oh god, it hurt.

**# # # # # #**

She didn't know how much time had passed when he found her there, on the edge of the Tower, eyes swollen from crying and face snotty and blotchy. But she knew the approaching footsteps were his even before he said her name.

"Hermione."

She looked up at him standing there several metres away, his eyes as grey as the sky and just as turbulent behind strands of white-blonde hair that fluttered frantically in the wind. His mouth was set in a flat, hard line, and he looked like he was afraid she was going to jump; she could tell by the way he had his wand ready at his side, from the way he watched her like a hawk. She stared back just as silent as he, until he broke the silence with her name again.

"Hermione?" Draco sounded cautious and hesitant as he edged towards her, trying to be sneaky about it and failing miserably. She scrubbed at her face and blinked up at him, feeling all stuffy and blocked up, her head and sinuses aching and her throat raw from crying.

"I'm not going to pitch myself over, Draco," she croaked, a touch acerbic, and he looked a little relieved and a little sheepish. He moved toward her immediately, crouching down at her side and shoving her hair back, tucking it behind her ears and trailing cool silver fingers down her cheek, as his eyes searched hers. She snuffled wetly and leaned into his touch, felt a small, happy feeling of relief seep up from beneath the hurt that had been consuming her. "You spoke to your mother, did you?" she asked, assuming Draco wouldn't have approached her so tentatively if he hadn't known what had happened, and he nodded, his features going very hard.

"I'm going to fucking _kill_ her."

Hermione tried to speak, but her throat felt all clogged with emotion again, and her head swam with nightmares, and she fell against Draco with a sob, her breasts pressing into his knee as she hugged his legs pathetically. His arms came up around her tightly, cradling her as her fists balled up and her eyes screwed shut, tears slipping from beneath her lashes in a fresh storm of weeping. Draco stroked her back and made helpless attempts at soothing her, but as much as she tried to pull herself bloody well together, Hermione couldn't seem to stop crying. Damn Narcissa for setting her off like this, damn Lucius for hurting them, and damn the Death Eaters, and Voldemort, and the whole bloody war. She hated it all. Hated it.

_Christ, pull yourself together, Hermione,_ she thought angrily, trying to seize control of her hitching gasping breaths, which only worsened her sobs. She was crying like she used to as a child – great, whooping breaths and shuddering shoulders, and snot smeared all beneath her nose. Disgusting and pathetic, and through it all Draco stroked her back and said soothing bits of things in her ear – it did nothing to calm her, but she appreciated the attempt. He shifted and her grip on his legs nearly broke, before there was a disconcerting lurch, and his arms hard around her as he heaved her up, and then she opened her eyes to find herself sitting across his lap, a little way back from the very edge of the Tower. She shut her eyes again and burrowed her head into Draco's chest as his hand came up and stroked over her hair, the wind nearly snatching away the worried things he murmured to her, with that undercurrent of anger at his mother.

It took a long time for Hermione's tears to ebb, and when they finally did she felt hollowed out and fragile. The memories were still vivid and stark in her mind's eye, but the storm of emotion had raged itself out, and Draco's heart thudded against her ear, and his hand still smoothed steadily over her hair. "I'm sorry," she whispered hoarsely, embarrassed at her behaviour, and picturing unwillingly the way Draco had looked when Rostan had shoved him back into the cell that first time. Remembering the violation of having hands pawing all over her body as she hung from the chains. The humiliation of having to use the bucket. Hearing again like echoes, Draco's screams as they tortured him. Remembering the feeling of guilt and the bleakness in Draco's eyes as she had apparated away and left him to what they had both believed was his death.

She shuddered and slid her arms around Draco's waist, clinging to him desperately. "Merlin, I'm so sorry." She didn't know what she was apologising for – the breakdown, or everything else.

"Hermione…it's all right. It's fine. Don't be sorry, you haven't done anything wrong. It's my mother's stupid, tactless, _stupid_ fucking fault," he told her roughly, the worry radiating off him in tangible waves.

"She didn't mean to…she just…" Hermione tried to be fair – generous even – when it came to Draco's mother, but the memories kept crowding in and shoving out rational thought. "God. God, Draco, I can't stop fucking _thinking _about it all," she cried desperately, jerking in quick, shallow pants. "I – I thought I was _coping_. Coping so _well._ I thought I was getting past it. I thought –"

"You thought you could just bury it and never think of it again. You thought you could move on without ever dealing with it, ever facing it again. Just leaving it dead. In the past," Draco finished for her, his voice tight and his hands still moving soothingly through her tangled hair.

"Yes," she got out past the lump in her throat. "What other option do I have? Now is hardly the time to deal with it. We're in the middle of a war – I can hardly waltz off to counselling – not that the wizarding world even _has _it – when we're preparing for what will possibly be the biggest battle yet in this whole Merlin-damned war. Besides, I have no idea how one is _ever_ supposed to deal with…what happened. What we…went through."

"I know."

"How do you do it? How do you always seem so bloody together? Like none of it touches you?" she asked in a small voice, and felt a tremor run through Draco. He cleared his throat.

"I'm better at compartmentalising than you," he said very coolly, a sharp pain behind the flat tone that belied his words. "I just…Merlin, I don't fucking know, Hermione. I don't know how I don't fall apart. I try to focus on the present, I suppose. Besides, I can't bloody afford to fall apart, can I?"

Hermione twisted her head to look up at him. He was all pale, sharp angles, his platinum hair snapping into the wind, and his eyes the colour of the overcast sky, looking into hers with a bleak sort of helplessness. She couldn't stop overlaying his features with how he had had looked after Rostan and the others had raped him, all those times. Bruised and bloodied, face stained with tears of pain and humiliation, all hope obliterated, leaving only sick, broken hatred. She blinked hard and then he was unmarred again, beautiful enough in his own way to make an iron fist squeeze tight around her heart, but still just as bleak and cold, statue still as he watched her.

"Do you think we'll ever get past it? Ever stop having the nightmares, and…?" she asked quietly, her fingers going up to fiddle with the buttons on his shirt. He shrugged a shoulder. "I don't know, Hermione."

She laughed tearily. "No optimism from you, hmm? Just the cold, hard…truth."

Draco looked vaguely apologetic, and his hand cupped her cheek, thumb smoothing along her cheekbone. "I'm sorry, Hermione. But I don't bloody know. I don't. Ever since we were…captured…I can hardly bear to go to sleep, thanks to the _fucking _nightmares. About what I did under the _Imperius_, about what they did to you, about the fear and the torture and the – the _rape_." He said the last word in a whisper, his gaze dipping and lashes fluttering, spiky with dampness as Hermione brought her hand up to press to his chilled cheek, in imitation of his hand on hers. They sat there a moment leaning into each others touch, before they dropped their hands away and Draco sucked in a deep breath.

"I dream that the Dark Lord has us again, and he _imperios_ me, and forces me to t-torture you to death, and then gives me to Rostan, to do what – what he wants with me." Draco closed his eyes and Hermione could hear his teeth grinding together as he tried to regain control of himself, his arm around her waist digging into her tightly. "I try to kill myself, in the dreams. But it never works, and you _die_, I _murder _you, and then he…rapes me." He let out a shuddering exhale. "Over and over and over, and I…" He broke off, shoulders starting to shake, turning his face away from hers, and Hermione's heart ached for him.

"Draco. Draco, god, it's okay. It's all right. That's not going to happen. It's never going to happen." She grabbed his chin and turned his face back to hers and flinched inside at the tears on his cheeks that he swept roughly away. He was just as scared and broken as her; he was balancing on a knife's edge, just like she was. There was a sea of hurt hidden beneath a too-calm surface of war preparations and baby plans, and nightmares not spoken of. It scared her, to see Draco like this, his eyes wet and jaw clenched in an attempt to hold everything in. It was selfish, but Hermione needed him to be strong for her, because right now she was doubtful that she could be strong for herself.

"I know," he said, pressing his lips together and then saying, "I can't stop thinking about the baby, Hermione. I know I can survive the past, because I have been so far, and I don't plan to stop. I'm not going to let Rostan and the others break me. I _refuse_ to. But how the _fuck_ are we supposed to make good parents? Merlin, I don't fucking know how we're going to do this, and I want to do it _right_. I don't want to…fuck things up."

She knew he was thinking of Lucius, and she made a sympathetic grimace. "We won't be doing it alone, Draco. We'll have each other, and everybody else." She nudged him and smiled weakly, trying to joke. "Besides, it's _me_ you should be worried about. You're keeping it together better than I am. Look at me – I'm a bloody mess."

"You're perfect. You'll be an amazing mother, Hermione Granger, and you know it. You just need to get better at –"

"Compartmentalising?" Hermione interjected and Draco smirked and she smiled, and then his fingertips dragged down the side of her face, smirk fading. "Yeah. That."

He lowered his head, nose nudging against her cheek. "You have to be strong enough to do this on your own, Hermione. You can't put all your trust in me." His breath was a hot whisper on her skin, and her head shot back as she stared at him wide-eyed and frightened. "What? Why?"

"We still don't know what will happen to me after –"

"_Don't_," she snarled, jabbing him in the chest, and he sighed, and tried another tack while Hermione glared warningly. "Not to mention, I may be holding it together now…but I'm fucked in the head, Hermione. I might not always be able to be, well, relied upon to be the strong one. Right?" Draco's head dipped back down to hers, and his lips drifted from her ear to the corner of her mouth. She nuzzled him softly, her hand sliding up to clutch in his hair. "We're a matching pair, then," she said softly. Her chest was tight and despite the cold wind blustering about them, she felt hot. Draco's lips brushed over hers, his grey eyes open, and heavy-lidded and dark, and Hermione felt the heat centre in her belly, winding and coiling, and she embraced it. Let it chase the darkness and cold away for a while.

"Everything will be all right, Draco. In the end, everything will be all right," she whispered against his mouth.

"Hopeless bloody optimist," Draco murmured and kissed her. Warm, soft lips, and Hermione's eyes fell shut, a little mm-ing noise slipping out of her. And then as his fingers curled into her hair, she saw Draco in her mind's eye – bent over a bucket, retching and crying and covered in bruises and bites and blood, and she wondered if he was right. If she was just a hopeless optimist, and nothing would ever be all right. If everything would always be tainted by memories that they couldn't seem to escape. But Draco was warm and demanding, all taut with the need to try to forget again, just like she wanted to, so Hermione kissed him with single-minded focus, and _compartmentalised_.

**# # # # # #**

"You look like absolute shite, Draco, darling," Pansy said bluntly, arching an eyebrow at Draco as she strolled in the doorway of the otherwise empty classroom. He snorted and spared her only a brief glance, in no mood for her abrasiveness and self-absorption right now. He only wanted to be left alone, which was precisely why he had buggered off to an out-of-the-way classroom to turn a bundle of sheeting into useful bandages for Madam Pomfrey.

"Thanks, Pans. Glad to see all this hasn't affected your glowing personality," he snarked sourly, hoping she'd get the bloody hint and piss off. No such luck. Instead, she pulled out a chair at the table he was seated at, and tilted her head birdlike at him, smirking faintly.

"Tetchy, tetchy," she chided him, before picking up a strip of the sheeting that was strewn over the table and running it through her evaluating fingers like an overlarge ribbon. Draco ignored her jibe and continued his boring work transfiguring the strips of sheet into bandages, rolling them neatly up with another wave of his wand, and floating them into a box for delivery to the hospital wing later.

He could feel Pansy's eyes on him as she sat there silently for all of five minutes, before pulling her wand and attempting to transfigure the sheets herself. Her first attempt came out badly – it was a striped stretchy flannelette cross between bandage and the original sheet, and Draco hid a smile. Pansy swore and tried again, muttering something about being rusty, and within another ten minutes and no little perseverance and swearing, was transfiguring passable bandages. At least if she had to intrude on his peace and quiet, she was keeping her mouth shut and not prying, Draco thought. He still resented her presence though. He needed time alone, to get his head back together after Hermione's meltdown on the Astronomy Tower.

"Actually deigning to help with something so menial? I'm surprised at you, Pansy," he jabbed, scowling as he worked. He was on edge, damnit, and half the reason why he'd shut himself away was that when he was edgy, he was an arsehole to the people around him. Wasn't fit for company. So, very nicely, he'd thought, Draco had exiled himself until he could manage to stop thinking about all the things his mother had resurrected in Hermione, and through her, him. He kept thinking about Rostan. About the _Imperius_ and what he'd done while under the curse. About his father and his hand and Pansy and Hermione… He wished he could _obliviate_ himself, but the risks of losing more memory than he intended was too high and besides, Hermione would never agree to obliviation, and if she was condemned to remember it, he couldn't choose to forget.

Draco wished he could though. It hurt very badly to know that Hermione had seen his shame and his despair. Had seen him broken, like _that_. As much as she told him in her eyes and her actions that it didn't change things, he still felt like…less of a man, somehow. She had seen him at his most vulnerable, violated and sobbing over it, and even now it made him feel exposed and humiliated that she knew.

"What's wrong?" Pansy asked firmly, laying a hand over his wrist and stilling his wand flicks. Draco sighed and leaned back in his chair, meeting the eyes of one of his oldest friends, and seeing nothing but concern and badly veiled hurt.

"Nothing. Shit, I didn't mean to snap at you. I'm an arsehole."

"You are – in fact, you wounded me deeply," Pansy replied exaggeratedly, a sly expression coming over her face. "But if you tell me what has you all pissy today, I'll let you off just this once." She smirked. He gave her a _look_, rolling his eye and holding back all the nasty retorts that sprang to the tip of his tongue, compliments of his foul mood. Pansy didn't deserve to get snarled at over what seemed to be genuine concern for him.

"Tempting, but no deal," he said simply instead, flashing Pansy a twisted smile and dropping his wand on the table with a clatter, stretching the kinks out of his back with a sigh. Pansy glared, flicking her wand and sending a bandage whirling up into a neat roll, her pug face – which Draco had always found oddly appealing – all scrunched up into a rather unattractive scowl.

"Is it Granger?" she probed, but Draco refused to answer, making a show of idly examining his nails instead, looking as disinterested as was humanly possible when he felt like his insides were knotted and his head ached like hell. Pansy hummed under her breath, and ventured further guesses. "Your mother? The war? Parenthood? The ungrateful little shits making your life a misery lately?" She ticked off a long list on her fingers in a casual, snobbish tone that was pure Pansy; overly blunt and without any overt trace of sympathy. Draco kept picking at a ragged edge on his thumbnail, and Pansy harrumphed impatiently.

"I'll just keep pestering you until you talk, you know."

He finally looked over at her, watching him with concerned eyes that contradicted her haughty, gossipy tone of voice.

"Just leave me the hell alone, Pans. I'm not in the mood for a _heart-to-heart_ – what are we, in Gryffindor now?"

"Eww, Merlin _no!_" Pansy's face screwed up comically. "But you've been in a disgustingly foul mood all afternoon – ever since just before lunch, when you screamed at your mother loud enough for Finn – _me_ to hear all the way down the corridor in my room." Pansy looked away from him, her cheeks pinking. That had been a miserable save, and they both knew it. Draco's eyebrow arched – sensing distraction from his own issues, he swooped in for the kill.

"And what was Seamus Finnegan doing in your bedroom, Pans?" he drawled, before smirking infuriatingly. "No, actually please don't tell me – I'd rather not know."

Pansy actually bloody blushed and damn near simpered, her face going soft and starry-eyed, and Draco recoiled in shock. "Holy fucking shit, I know that look, Pansy," he accused, pointing a finger at her. "You truly like the bastard." He shook his head disbelievingly. "Well fuck me dead, when the hell did this happen?"

Pansy thumped him on the arm and glared daggers, thrusting her chin into the air so she could stare down her nose at him. "None of your business, Draco Malfoy." She hesitated. "But…I think I kind of do like him. Maybe a little bit. He's been one of the only people to be nice to me, and I stumbled in on him drinking in the kitchens after midnight a few days ago, and he offered me a drink, and well…" She went redder and Draco grinned, half-amused and half happy for Pansy. Finnegan might be a dolt, but he was a decent dolt, at least. "Neither of us meant anything like that to happen," she explained, all red and filled with defensive embarrassment, "But…I think I actually like the freckled halfwit. He makes me feel normal. U-undamaged."

"_Everyone _feels normal and undamaged in comparison to Finnegan, Pans," Draco said dryly. "But that said, he's a decent bloke." He shot her a half-smile. "I'm happy for you."

"I'm hardly planning on marrying him!" Pansy denied, aghast. "It's just a few friendly shags, that's all. The first since…well, anyway, it's just comfort. A wartime time thing. Nothing more."

Draco fixated on the one part of Pansy's babbling that meant anything to him – the first since…_my father raped you_, he finished it for her, in his head. Bit his lip, went hot and cold all over. "You shagged?" She nodded. "Was it…all right? I mean…were you okay – did he know…?" He frowned, fingers twitching. "I swear to Merlin, if he pressured you or –"

"He didn't pressure me – and I'm sure I can defend myself against Finnegan; I'm not _that_ useless, Draco. But I appreciate the concern. It's unexpected and rather sweet," Pansy told him briskly, and then gazed off into the distance dreamily. "I got terribly drunk, tried to clumsily seduce him, burst into tears and told him everything halfway through, and cried on his lap for what felt like hours." She shot him a wide-eyed look of awed disbelief. "He wasn't mean or awful; he wasn't a manipulative bastard. He just patted my back and said lovely things to me, and…" Pansy choked off her words, clearly fighting back tears. "And when I tried, like an idiot, to seduce him _again_ – still half in tears – he told me it was all up to me. That it was all about me. That…" Her eyes bored into Draco's, and he found himself mesmerised by the intensity there. "It was _perfect_, Draco."

Uncomfortable with the crackling levels of emotion in the room, Draco was flippant, if affectionate. "I thought you said it was purely a wartime thing?" he teased, and Pansy gave him a laughably woebegone look. "It was supposed to be – _is_ supposed to be. But I think I _like_ Seamus Finnegan, entirely too much."

Draco smirked. "Those Gryffindors have a way of getting under your skin, don't they?"

"Well I don't _like_ it," Pansy retorted, caught somewhere between a sulk, tears, and laughter. Draco patted her on the arm reassuringly, and she fixed him with a sudden gimlet stare. "But I didn't come in here to talk about me and my terrible taste in men –"

"Hey!" Draco protested.

"As riveting as the topic of myself may be, I came to talk about your issues. What's going on with you today, Draco?"

"I said I didn't want to talk about it." He turned his attention back to the sheeting strips, and began transfiguring bandages again.

"I talked to _you_. You _owe_ me. I told you nearly everything, in the end, thanks to your manipulative persuasion, and your insistence that it would make me feel better. And it did, by the way." She shook her head, clearing it. "Anyway, my point is – I trusted you. The least you can do is return that trust." Pansy seemed genuinely upset now – _seemed_ being the operative word; the witch _was_ a Slytherin after all. But she stared at him with a wounded expression, and in the end Draco grimaced and pinched the bridge of his nose, wanting to just admit defeat to Pansy and tell her everything, if only so as to get her to stop staring at him like a puppy he was murdering.

Draco had spent all bloody afternoon trying to suppress the memories his fucking mother had resurrected in Hermione, and thus him. All the things he had tried so hard not to think about had come lurching back to life, like _inferi_. Draco supposed trauma couldn't reasonably be buried forever – eventually it would find its way back to the surface, but he had hoped to delay the stupid fucking emotional breakdown until _after_ the war. He could come to pieces over what Rostan had…Merlin, even in his head it was hard to admit to himself. He couldn't stop _picturing_ it, but he couldn't bring himself to think the bloody words coldly and dispassionately. He felt like such a pathetic piece of shit – beaten down by memories of being turned into a wh…

He sucked in a breath and turned his eyes on Pansy. Discussing his issues with her would hardly help him attain his goal of ruthlessly shoving them back down to fester under the surface, but he felt emotion clog his throat, and he _wanted _to tell someone, and besides, when she looked at him with those wounded eyes… And he knew intimately how fucking persistent Pansy could be, and she kind of did have a point with the fact that she had trusted him, so it was only fair for him to show equal trust. Damnit. Perversely, he _wanted_ to tell her, and rationally, he probably should. It might help, perhaps. The only thing holding Draco back was that he absolutely _despised _being vulnerable.

"Fine. Fine, you obstinate bloody bitch," he said with exasperation, but no rancour. "It's everything you listed, and more besides."

Pansy's face softened and her hand folded over Draco's as he slumped in his chair in resignation. "And what's the 'more besides?" she asked quietly, and Draco swallowed hard.

"If you tell another soul, I swear to Salazar, I will murder you. Slowly."

She nodded.

"When we were captured, the Death Eaters were not…permitted…to rape Hermione. The same strictures however, were not placed on their treatment of me." The words came out stiffly, awkward and cold on his tongue, although inside Draco was burning up with sick humiliation. Pansy's eyes rounded with horrified empathy – she understood what he felt, he reminded himself, muscles tensed and trembling. That wasn't pity in her eyes – she _knew_ how he felt. He tried to make himself unwind and relax his strung out nerves just a little, so he didn't feel like he was going to lash out any second, but he couldn't. Her hand tightened on his.

"Oh Draco, I'm so, so sorry. I – they – Merlin…Draco…"

"A-a-all of them," he stammered, shivers overtaking him and his hand twisting sharply to enclose Pansy's and squeeze. Draco felt like he was going to vomit, bile rising in his throat sharp and sour, unable to meet Pansy's eyes for the shame and humiliation. "Over and over again, until – until…" He faltered to a halt, and forced himself to meet Pansy's gaze, and saw only horrified understanding there, and then the words just began to pour out of him. It was like a dam had burst, like cutting open an infected wound and letting the poison run out. Draco couldn't bring himself to speak of every gruesomely intimate detail to Hermione – he couldn't burden her with that – but with Pansy, he could. He didn't have to worry about her looking at him differently during sex after hearing all the terrible things they'd forced him to do, that they'd done to him.

He could tell Pansy.

Draco clung to her hand in the otherwise empty classroom, spilling the words out in a ragged stream, tears of misery dripping down onto their clasped hands, mingling with the ones she was shedding as she listened silently. When he finally ran out of words, he cried on her shoulder like a pathetic child while she held him tight enough to near crack his ribs. And Pansy was right; it did make Draco feel a little better, to have let it out, and it was good to have her there for him. But in the end, she left and he was alone again. In the end, everyone was alone. He wished Hermione was there, but he couldn't face her like this; shaky and teary, and about as far from being the pillar of strength that she needed as one could be.

So Draco stayed sitting in the empty classroom, staring at the bandages in front of him, until he revised his previous opinion; Pansy had been wrong. Talking about it hadn't made a fucking bit of difference. Killing Rostan, on the other hand, and all the other bastards who had 'had a go', now _that_ might help Draco feel a little better. He smiled sightlessly and without humour at the rolls of bandages as new mental pictures entered his head, playing through reels of the different ways in which Rostan could die – slowly, and in great, great pain.

**# # # # # #**

"New arrivals," Neville said to Hermione as he hurried past her and Draco towards Hogwarts' entrance. "Not just Order members either," he called back, and Hermione immediately quickened her pace. She fell in beside Neville, soaking up his breathless excitement as though it was infectious. Draco seemed immune, although he followed close behind them, hands in his pockets and pointed chin up, fringe falling over his forehead and into his eyes, boots scuffing the floor.

"Who then?" Hermione asked Neville, and he flashed her an excited grin. "Rescued prisoners. Taken in a raid last night."

"We're still raiding?" Hermione wrinkled her brow, and Neville shrugged, striding along and forcing Hermione to trot to keep up. "S'pose so."

Hermione shot Draco a raised eyebrow and silent query, and he shook his head – he hadn't known either. She frowned to herself as she scurried along beside Neville; she didn't like the way she seemed to be constantly out of the loop and uninformed these days. To be fair, it was partially her fault, but still – it irritated her slightly. She would have thought that Harry or Ron would have told her, if they had known – and they must have. No one raided unless it was sanctioned by Remus, Professor McGonagall, Kingsley, or Harry.

She, Neville, and Draco came to an abrupt stop in the entry hall, along with quite a few others; it seemed like everyone who had arrived at Hogwarts so far had come out to greet the new arrivals. Word travelled fast. No doubt many people hoped to see familiar faces among the rescued prisoners, and they were all hushed, silent as the grave, eyes pinned to the doors, closed against the outside world. The air was thick and heavy with anticipation, and a little fear – everyone knew what prisoners suffered, and while the rescue of those captured was a marvellous thing, the scars and trauma they would carry was a sobering thought. Those who had been captured would never be the same again; Hermione knew that intimately.

She felt her chest go tight and her stomach churn as the door began to open, and then Draco's fingers interweaved with hers. Warm and firm, he steadied her, and they shared a brief look of reassurance before turning their eyes back to the battered troupe limping into Hogwarts' safety. The rescued prisoners were dazed and emaciated, hobbling and bloodied, filthy, a fearful sort of dulled hope in their eyes, as if they were afraid this was all a dream. Flanked and assisted by the Order team who had rescued them, they were greeted with a sudden eruption of cheers and applause. It burst out of the silence and filled the hall deafeningly, the sound of joy and triumph, and Hermione realised tears were sheeting down her face as several people were reunited with loved ones.

Sobs of relief and joy came from tight knotted embraces between people who had thought the other long dead – friends and family clinging together. Hermione smiled through her tears, pressing up to Draco's side and feeling his thumb rub gently over the back of her fingers. The breathless anticipation had well broken, and chaos had taken over as people wept and laughed, Professors McGonagall and Flitwick were bustling forward and sorting out who needed assistance to get the hospital wing, plucking eager volunteers from the people gathered, and welcoming the shell-shocked prisoners with comforting, firm warmth. It was lovely, and Hermione watched it all unfold with a strange, wild sort of joy in her heart. She had never seen the aftermath of a raid like this. Never seen the mass reunions and the joy and pain all tumbled together inextricably.

Then Draco's fingers spasmed on Hermione's and a small gasp wrenched from his throat. She snapped her head to stare up at him, and saw he had gone white as a sheet as he stared towards the doors, where the new arrivals were gathered, milling about. Terror was written all over him, and Hermione's heart sank like a stone. She swung her gaze to where he was staring with huge, horrified grey eyes, expecting to see a Death Eater the others hadn't recognised, or something terrible like that. But it was just a girl. A girl of about seventeen, who Hermione vaguely recognised as a Ravenclaw. Dark, straggling hair framing a half-starved face, that would have been beautiful if not for the filth encrusted on her, or the dull vacuity shaping her features.

"No." Draco said it very softly, the word filled with desperate denial, and Hermione's sunken heart lurched.

"Draco?" She squeezed his hand, but he was frozen on the girl in her ragged, dirty clothes, as she made her painful way into the middle of the entry hall, looking around for a familiar face.

"Draco." Hermione was scared now. Draco's lips were moving in a litany of soundless denials, and he was drained of blood, so dead white he looked like a vampire. "Draco!" she cried loudly and dropped his hand, shook his arm roughly, and from the corner of her eye, she saw the girl's attention snap to them as Hermione's call broke through the chaotic noise. Draco saw too, and took a stumbling step back.

"No. _Fuck_. _Fuck,_ _no._"

"Draco, you're scaring me!"

"Hermione, what's –"

"Not now, Neville!" she snapped, and twisted her head to look at the girl again, who limped fast toward them, her face suddenly not dulled or vacuous anymore, but a twisted mask of rage. Hermione felt sick, her mind clutching at explanations and shying away from them all, unable to even contemplate them.

"You!" the girl screamed, pointing her trembling finger at Draco, her voice hoarse and raw. "_You!_"

"Draco – Draco what the _hell _is –"

He looked down at Hermione, face painted in misery and guilt and shame. "I'm sorry, Hermione. I'm so sor–"

"You!" The girl was mere feet away now, and she sobbed the one word in a voice so hurt and broken that Hermione couldn't breathe. "Death Eater! Death Eater! _Death Eater!_"

"He defected!" Hermione yelled out, cutting off the girl's rising cries and putting herself between Draco and the girl, arms flung out protectively, _trying _to explain. "It's all right, he defected. He's not going to hurt you!"

Draco made a choked sob from behind her, and the girl snarled, hands becoming fists. "He _defected?_" Her voice became a shriek and the hall began to still as people heard the ruckus. "He _defected?_" She gave Hermione a look of disgusted pity that made Hermione cringe back. "I'll tell you what he did! Not a bloody month ago, he fucking held me down while the others took their turns at me!"

Hermione's arms fell. It felt like the breath had been crushed out of her. Like her heart was splitting apart. He _what? No. nononononono…_

"He held me down, He used the cruciatus on me. He choked me and beat me, and spat in my f-face. He c-c-cut me. _See!_" The girl thrust out stick-like arms crisscrossed with fresh scars, and Hermione whimpered. "He was under the _Imperius_. He didn't –"

But the girl ignored Hermione. "He made me – made me…" The Ravenclaw's thin chest was heaving, she swayed on her feet. "Made me suck…"

Hermione's blood ran cold as the girl's voice trailed off, and she staggered a step to the side, turning to look at Draco. She needed him to deny it. _Needed _him to… He looked away from Hermione, to the girl. His voice was nearly unrecognisable, it was so choked. "I was under the _Imperius_. But that doesn't make it better. I know. I'm so – so sorry…"

"Keep your fucking sorries!" The girl sprang forward at Draco, her hands clawed, knocking Hermione back. She nearly fell, only caught by Neville's steadying arms, and lifted her eyes to see the Ravenclaw raking bloody gouges down Draco's face, and he not even trying to stop her. His arm was over his face, and his head bowed, but he did nothing to fight the girl off; just took it.

"Stop it!" Hermione screamed at the girl, pulling away from a stunned Neville and yanking roughly at the Ravenclaw's arm. Thin and injured as she was though, the girl resisted her easily, shoving Hermione away and striking at Draco with her nails and fists – he tried to grab her wrists now, but she bit his hand and shrieked, and flung herself forward onto him, sending them both toppling to the ground. People were yelling and crying out, Professor McGonagall's voice high above it all, but Hermione couldn't make sense of any of it. The girl's words bored into her like red hot pins.

"You murdered my mother! You tortured me! You filthy Merlin-damned raping, murdering _scum!_"

Hermione felt sick to her stomach and dizzy; everything was whirling and the girl kept screaming horrible, terrible accusations, and all Draco did was stare up at the girl, apologising hoarsely.

"I was _imperioed_. I couldn't help it. I'm sorry," he coughed breathlessly; face bloodied and silver eyes so ashamed it was hard to look at them. Hermione stumbled and shook, crying wretchedly and fumbling for her damned wand to stupefy the girl. Neville was quicker. He wrapped an arm around Hermione, holding her up securely, and said, "_Somnium._" The girl collapsed in a limp heap on top of Draco, who made a horrid, rasping sound, and covered his face with his hands.

"Mr Longbottom!" Professor McGonagall was suddenly there at last, and lifted her wand and flicked, the girl's form floating up to waist height and drifting over to McGonagall's side. "What exactly –"

"A sleeping charm, Professor."

"Very good, Mr Longbottom. Miss Granger. _Hermione_ – are you all right?"

She wasn't. In fact, she rather felt like she wanted to pass out, but she clung to Neville's sleeve and nodded, gulping hard. "Y-yes, thank you, Professor."

Neville muttered a few bolstering words in her ear and rubbed her back hard as she stared numbly at Draco, who shoved himself to his feet with a wince. There were several deep bloodied scratches crimson down his cheeks and jaw, vivid against his ashen skin. He kept his eyes on the floor, avoiding Hermione's fixed gaze. She didn't know if she wanted to scream at him and hit him, or…she didn't know. _He was imperioed_, she told herself sharply through the fog of shock that had fuzzed up her thoughts. _He couldn't help it_. Perhaps she should rush forward and reassure him, but her feet were rooted to the floor, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, and just this second, she felt like if she let go of Neville, her legs would give way.

"Miss Bell, here, please take Lenora upstairs to the hospital wing," Professor McGonagall said briskly, transferring the girl's floating body to Katie's charge, before turning to Draco. She whisked her wand a few times and the blood vanished from his face, the gouges closed nearly altogether, but were still livid stripes. "Mr Malfoy?"

He swallowed. "Yes?" It was a hoarse whisper, and his eyes stayed on the floor.

"I believe we may need to talk," the Professor snapped out, looking shaken and terribly uncomfortable and worried. "The library, I think. Come along, _now_, please." She spun on her heel and glanced about at the silent, watching throng of people. "Everyone; back to your business!" she ordered in a high bark, and the frozen silence broke as everyone obediently resumed what they had been doing, or scattered. Hermione could feel their eyes on her and Draco though – could hear the whispers. She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin.

"May I come, Professor?"

"Of course, Miss Granger," McGonagall said rather gently, as Draco finally lifted his eyes in shock – shame and guilt burning in them.

"Need a hand, Hermione?" Neville offered, and Hermione shook her head no and thanked him for his help – dear, dependable, Neville – before falling in step with Draco behind the Professor. Neville stared after them forlornly for a moment, before turning to see how he could help the new arrivals. Hermione walked in dead silence for a while, searching her mind for words, before finally dredging up what they'd had to say to each other all too often. Her hand found Draco's and when he tried to flinch away, she just clutched tighter. Their eyes met as they paused on the steps, waiting for them to move.

"It doesn't change anything," she lied, wishing it were truth, and Draco gave a humourless little chuckle, seeing straight through her. He gave her the requisite answer. "Yes, it does. It changes everything."

"Not anything that really matters," she returned, and when Hermione got right down to the core of everything, _that_ was truth, and from the sudden bone-creaking grip Draco clasped her hand with, he knew it was the truth too. She ascended the stairs beside him; his hand clutched tightly in hers, and she told herself with every step that whatever Draco had done, it had been because of the _Imperius_. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't. It wasn't. But she knew he blamed himself, so it didn't matter what she thought, did it? Hermione tried very hard not to cry. She failed.

**# # # # # #**

Draco felt like he was walking to his execution. He couldn't understand why Hermione was still at his side, but Merlin, he was so fucking grateful. He didn't deserve her, and he fucking knew it. And he wouldn't blame her if she left him because of the answer he would have to give to the question he could almost _see_, sizzling in McGonagall's brain. Oh fuck, who was he kidding? He'd blame her. Hate her, in fact.

Draco kept his feet moving obediently after McGonagall, feeling both numb and terrified. He wanted to grab Hermione and run. His chest was squeezed tight as panic shivered through him, and he wanted to grab Hermione and _run_. Somewhere far, far away from the brutal truth of the looming questions. Somewhere where they could pretend that none of _this_ had been real. He bit his lip so hard it bled. Somewhere far away, alone together.

"Professor?" Potter's worried voice as they entered the library.

"We have a problem, Mr Potter. It seems Mr Malfoy was not totally forthcoming about his activities while under the _Imperius _Curse." McGonagall's dry voice sliced the still air of the library, and Draco stared at the floor and let a sigh slither out of him, tugged his fingers free of Hermione's fiercely clutching ones thinking a silent apology to her, and lifted his head. He might not be a rapist in the technical sense of the word, but he didn't think the lack of penetration had made Lenora feel much better about it, and he expected the others would rightly agree with her.

Draco swallowed, throat clicking dryly, and prepared to crucify himself.

**# # # # # #**

**Author's Note: **Please, pretty please, _review!_ One more chapter, and then battle will erupt :D


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